


Czerwony Kapturek

by Zoom Zoom (PaperLillyWebs)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Angsty angsty angst, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Derek is Stiles' Anchor, Derek is a Good Alpha, Emissary Lydia, Injured!Everybody really, Iscaac is literal puppy, Like really slow, Lupa - Freeform, M is for violence/blood, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, No Smut, Pack Cuddles, Pack Feels, Puppy Piles, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Burn, Stiles is basically the pack anchor shh, Stiles whump, Stiles-centric, Stilinski Family Feels, Stilinskis are Polish, Tags to be added, This is so cliche I can't breathe tbh, Why is that not cannon, Wolf Danny, Wolf Jackson, casual nudity, casual queers, don't fight me on this, h/c, injured!Stiles, like hella casual, non-sexual nudity, the pack is way too comfortable, this is going to be an epic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 69,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperLillyWebs/pseuds/Zoom%20Zoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks he should be scared, terrified even, but he honestly can't find it in himself. Instead, he's mildly curious, tilting his head in the snow to look at the largest wolf, a great black brute. Funny, with how his night has been going, he wouldn't be surprised if they eat him; nothing good happens on full moons. Not here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 21st, 2010

   The winters in Beacon Hills had never been kind, rather cold and damp and dark. Nine months of the year, the townsfolk can't leave their homes without an umbrella, the other three, without snow boots. Every shop downtown seems to sell tissues and cold medicine, and hand-woven blankets brought in from the covens on the outskirts of the county line.

   No, winters in Beacon Hills are never kind, and Stiles only thinks it's fair that this one is no different. Of course, he usually spends his winter in front of the heater in his room, curled up with a comic book or his homework, not ass-down in two inches of fresh snow in the middle of the Preserve. He thinks he should miss the woolen blanket his dad had bought him the year  previously, but with the hair on the back of his head singed, and his neck mildly burned, he finds at least a little bliss in being pressed against the snow.

   His breath comes out in ragged puffs above his mouth, a whine or a whimper slipping out before he can quite stop it. He can feel his chest jerking up and down with every inhale and exhale, can feel the way his heart tears against his ribs. He forces himself to ignore the warmth that leaves his skin with every pound, soaking his shirt and dripping into the mud underneath him, focusing instead on the pearl-white moon that he can barely see through the branches of the tree he had collapsed under. Nothing good ever happens during the full moon. Not here.

   Groaning feebly, Stiles tries to push himself up, force himself to keep going, but his arms are jelly, which he finds mildly amusing considering his neck is toast.

   He snorts weakly to himself, closing his eyes and praying he never says that one aloud.

   When he opens his eyes again, nothing has changed, the moon is still high above him, there is still the acrid scent of smoke in his lungs, he still feels like his insides are spilling out, and his head spins, but there's still his breath crystallizing above him, still a knarled tree root pressing into his shoulder blade, and there's still the snuffling sound and hot breath at his side-

   Stiles blinks quickly, focusing his gaze just in time for a wet snout to nudge against his cheek, pulling a startled swear from him as he looks up and sees nothing but dirty-blond fur. It smells overwhelmingly of wet dog, which he supposes is better than blood and smoke, but it is still stifling.

   The dog (wolf?) pulls away enough for Stiles to get a better look at it, taking in wide blue eyes that look almost comical on such a large creature. Stiles raises an eyebrow, earning himself a snort and another nose-nudge to his cheek.

   Before Stiles can say something stupid (really, he'd be talking to a dog), it moves away several paces and sits back on its haunches, letting loose a howl that hits somewhere deep in Stiles' diaphragm. Barely a second passes before there are two loud howls of response, and a great crashing from the frosty leaves littering the forest floor. Stiles must be miles more out of town than he had thought, for there to be wolves out...

   Stiles swears he only closes his eyes for a moment, but the next time he opens them, there are three wolves sniffing at his wounds, and he feels strangely exposed. Though, really, it's not strange at all, considering he has three huge, meat-devouring mammals nose-deep in his blood. He thinks he should be scared, terrified even, but he honestly can't find it in himself. Instead, he finds himself mildly curious, tilting his head in the snow to look at the largest wolf, a great black brute.

   It takes Stiles a beat to realize he's being watched in return, the wolf's piercing red eyes blinking languidly at him, almost as if asking what on earth he could be doing out in the middle of the Preserve halfway through a December night (Stiles can hear the condescension from here). Stiles doesn't have an answer that doesn't curl his tongue and force bile up his throat, so he doesn't answer, just blinks back.

   The wolf leans closer and gives his throat a great sniff, muzzle curling in distaste before looking to the honey-blonde wolf behind him, giving a jerking nod. Stiles follows its gaze, vision starting to blur again, so he isn't quite sure what to make of the wolf crouching down and then there... isn't a wolf at all, rather a girl, a very naked, very  _curvy_ girl.

   Stiles doesn't remember much after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited)  
> Just a quick few notes about the AU: Supernatural creatures are known, and can coexist, but many are still feared.  
> The world is physically darker, the way I've imagined this, so think NW US winter weather. Almost always cloudy, dark, cold.  
> The Hale house is about fifteen miles outside of town; I'm not sure how far it is cannon-wise, but for this, it's far enough that none of the wolves go into town.  
> Deaton is alive and well in this, and is still a druid, but he was never the Hale's emissary. Lydia becomes the emissary, which will be explained in another fic.  
> Danny wasn't bitten by Derek, rather accidentally by Jackson.  
> These are closer to traditional werewolves; it'll be explained.  
> *sparkle sparkle* Magical Werewolf healing saliva *sparkle sparkle*  
> I haven't decided if Scott will go wolf in this. TBD.  
> Czerwony Kapturek is Little Red in Polish, according to my grandmother, and to user MissAntagonist.  
> What a Lupa is will be explained later in the story.
> 
> (Updated at least once a week.)  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _November 12th, 2014_
> 
> Winter in Beacon Hills doesn't get any kinder.

  Winter in Beacon Hills doesn't get any kinder. Wind still blows far too long into the morning, frost still crunches underfoot when it should be instead crunchy with leaves. Scott had never minded the cold, not before. Nowadays, he bundles up in too many sweatshirts, and too many socks, just to brace the walk to and from the cemetery that he visits every morning before his mom gets back from her late shift.

  But now, it's evening, a thin fog settling over everything as he lets his feet lead him down the familiar path to the cemetery just on the other side of Beacon Hills' only bowling alley. Scott hasn't been able to stand the cold since Stiles left his house one night and hadn't come back, but he braves it now, determined that the girl he is meeting will not see his discomfort.

  He isn't entirely sure why he would agree to meeting someone in such a place, regardless of his own feelings about the cemetery; a grave yard? Really? Nothing says romance like making out over rotting corpses.

  Pausing at the the entrance to the cemetery, Scott looks over the headstones, dutifully ignores a specific corner that knows his shoes more than anyone's, and drums his fingers on the latch of the gate. He was supposed to meet Sarah (was it? Sadie? Samantha? He doesn't know anymore,) at the large apple tree in the center, though Scott doesn't have a clue as to why. She had asked him out one morning during Algebra, and had seemed normal enough, but really, he should know by now that no one in Beacon Hills is really normal. She could be thinking of sacrificing him to Hecate or something.

  With a pang, Scott almost doesn't care, and pushes the gate open, the center beam worn from the many hands that had forced entry. He lingers a bit more on the groove than he should.

  No one is waiting underneath the tree, the cemetery silent save for the innocuous night sounds that raise goosebumps along his arms. On a good morning, this place is creepy as fuck, so Scott just pushes his hands into his outer sweatshirt-pocket, sighs inwardly, and leans against the damp bark. He didn't even know the girl's name, so he supposes he'll wait around for a bit, then just leave. She could have stood him up for the laugh; it wouldn't be the first time. Several people have tried since Stiles' funeral, getting a kick out of stranding the lonely boy in the strangest of places. That he didn't assume that with this strange invitation should be concerning.

  But really, he just feels cold.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye jerks his head up, a greeting on his lips, but the shadow making its way through the fog is far too tall to even be one of Beacon Hills' basketball players. Towering and spindly, and disproportionate enough that Scott finds it a miracle it hasn't collapsed in on itself.

  It might just be some poor human cursed by the gods, but Scott, and everyone in Beacon Hills, has learned not to take chances: before he even really realizes what he's doing, Scott is darting behind the small shed several yards from the tree, diving behind it and yanking his knees up to his chest. He whispers a silent prayer that he hadn't been noticed.

  "Scott! Scott, you out there?"

  Scott had never been blessed with good timing, nor would he claim to have, but this chick seems to have even worse. Whatever-her-name-was is walking right for the tree, seeing the figure hunched over and waiting at the base of the trunk, and she must be as stupid as her choice of romantic meeting places, because she doesn't even seem to hear his shout of warning before she's reaching out to touch the figure's arm.

  He hadn't really liked her blonde hair, even when it had been attached to her body. Now, along with half of her head, Scott watches mud and the red ichor he refuses to name sully said golden locks as they land in a sickening heap not a foot from his hand.

  He fights the rising bile in his throat, the churning of his stomach, looks away from the ground and towards the sky, something he can hardly see through the fog. Behind him, he hears the sorts of noises that make the darkest part of one's mind have a heyday, ripping and tearing a-and-and- Wow, he can hardly keep his thoughts straight enough to think that the exit isn't but a mad dash through the tombstones.

  He's freaking out, as one does when their date is being devoured by cannibal mountain spirits (fucking _windigos_ , man), so he really can't be blamed when it takes him until they're right behind him to hear the howls.

  Jerking from his thoughts, Scott inhales a sharp breath and looks around the side of the shed, just in time to see five, six wolves leap from behind the headstones nearest the forest, one going so far as to even use one as a springboard. He can't count the number of Windigos currently tearing his date to shreds, can hardly even process the _thought_  of what is currently happening under the tree, when the chocolate brown wolf that had felled a fence to get into the cemetery tackles two to the ground. Another wolf with a green sheen to its fur doesn't hesitate to rip out one of their throats.

  Another howl shatters the silence as a wolf with a midnight coat vaults over a headstone, and Scott almost misses the red blur of a figure astride its back. But the whoop of excitement is unmistakable in the chorus of inhuman screams and animal growls, like a raven in a flock of pigeons.

  Scott must have made a noise, because the figure sends a rapid glance in his direction from under his sweatshirt hood, but the wolves hadn't seem to notice him, so the kid turns back to face front. But the damage is done to Scott's lungs. They jolt rapidly alongside his heart, feeling as if they're bruising his ribs, because that's _Stiles_ -

  Scott has barely a moment to recognize the swing of a bat before one of the Windigo's heads is flying in his direction. He has even less time to duck back behind the shed before he gets a face-full of cannibal. It's a narrow miss.

  Vaguely, Scott knows that this is the Hale pack. Beacon Hills hardly ever saw hide or hair of the pack, much preferring to keep to themselves, but everyone knew them; it's hard to miss the ones that are in charge of protecting the Nemeton, and therefore the ley lines that crisscross under the town. Out of all the packs that Beacon Hill had had to deal with over the years since the supernatural had made themselves known, the Hale had been both the most frightening, and the least dangerous. Scott remembers the Sheriff mentioning an accord that had been drawn up years before he was born, before the Hale fire, that made them technical allies of Beacon Hills, but they had no obligation to protect the citizens without permission or request.

  So Scott can't really think of a reason why the Hale pack would be ridding the forest of a particularly nasty clan of Windigos. Windigos that hadn't even announced their presence before tonight; John would have mentioned something, would have gone to the council if he thought they needed help from the pack. Though, if he had, Scott would have supported it, because Windigos were never sung heroes.

  Another quick duck around the shed reminds Scott that humans can be pretty fucking terrifying too, watching as the figure the black wolf bears flick blood from the end of their barbed bat. The fight (read: slaughter) is mostly finished, a blonde wolf seeming to play with their food by allowing a Windigo to crawl a foot or two before pouncing, and then letting it go again. Scott's eyes can't stay long though, drawn immediately back to Stiles, who is riding a _fucking wolf_ , as he yanks off his hood, sliding to the ground that's soaked in the blue-green blood of the Windigos. He lets out a whoop of excitement and kicks one of the bodies, before poking at it with his bat as the blonde wolf finishes off their toy.

  The black wolf gives a grunt that can only be described as exasperated while Stiles is practically dancing around the bodies in a red hoodie so similar to the one he disappeared in-

  Scott almost chokes on his breath at the sight of him, alive and moving, and he almost doesn't feel the chill of the night.

  "Stiles?"

  The black wolf whips around, hackles up with teeth bared in a terrifying snarl as it immediately puts himself between Scott and the other human. Scott realizes he had lifted himself from the ground and had taken several steps towards them. Stiles looks around the wolf's shoulder with raised eyebrows and wide eyes, just as surprised as as anybody.

  The blonde and chocolate wolves quickly back up what Scott assumes is the alpha, followed closely by a tan one, though it takes Scott a moment to realize that two of the wolves were no longer so, standing amidst the carnage as humans. He doesn't focus on their faces, jerking his attention back to his old best friend, the one he'd thought had been torn apart by fucking vampires-

  "Scott!" Stiles pushes past the black wolf like it isn't anything, throwing himself at Scott before he can faint at the sight of the number of fangs aimed dangerously in his direction.

  Stiles must have put on some weight, because Scott skids back several steps at the force of the hug. "Stiles?" he asks again, almost too scared to believe that his best friend is hugging him for the first time in four years, scared he'll either wake up or realize he's dead or a djinn is poisoning him or whatever else Beacon Hills has to throw at him, but Stiles squeezes him impossibly tight, and he doesn't know what to do.

  "Holy shit, dude," Stiles breathes over the sound of his alpha still growling loudly, over the sound of the wolves-turned-human dragging the Windigos' bodies into neat rows, separating them from the remains of his... date. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Scott swallows and pulls away a little bit, just enough to look at him properly. He takes in the twin scars above his left eyebrow, the nick out of his right year, and the beaming grin that he can't seem to quell. Scott opens his mouth, finds he can't answer, and closes it once again.

  Stiles looks ready to say something as well, but he glances up and over Scott's shoulder a moment before the faint sound of sirens reaches his ears. The already-palpable tension skyrockets, and the alpha steps forward with a flash of red and a growl of warning. Stiles is tense, still wrapped in his arms, and Scott doesn't want to let him go, is almost scared to, though it gives him some relief that Stiles looks just as reluctant.

  Pulling back a bit more, Stiles runs a hand over his short hair, and Scott's stomach churns to see the missing ring finger and pinky. He manages a small sound, but Stiles doesn't seem to notice, not with his alpha taking another step closer to them. Scott flinches and jerks back a little bit, while Stiles pulls back his other arm as if he had been burned. The approaching sirens quickly grow louder, as does the alpha's growl, reaching a near-painful pitch. "Scott, I-"

  "Stiles, we need to move." Scott snaps to look at _Danny fucking Mahealani_  wiping his blue stained hands on his jeans and walking quickly towards him. Jackson isn't far behind, just like in school, and Scott can't help but feel thrown and a little hurt. When the hell had his high school teammates joined the Hale pack? Scott has the rather frightening thought that they had been part of it even in high school.

   Looking to Stiles in confusion, Scott just manages to catch his friend's eyes darting towards the entrance to the cemetery, face lighting up with red and blue. His lips are thin in an uncharacteristic frown, that's suddenly turned on him. "Sorry, Scotty, I gotta go."

  As if on cue, the alpha darts forward and Stiles fluidly swings himself up onto its back, astride in a worn leather saddle that Scott hadn't noticed before, beads and feathers hanging from the horn. In swift movements, Jackson and Danny join their packmates in the sinewy form of wolves, and Scott gets that stab of betrayal again.

  He stumbles over his tongue as the pack turns and starts for the forest, automatically reaching out for his friend. "Wait, Stiles, your dad-"

  Stiles sends him a painful smile over his shoulder, but his alpha is leaping over headstones before he can respond, Stiles grabbing his bat from the ground just in time to miss the screeching of tires on the gravel of the cemetery parking lot. Scott vaguely hears shouting, but just watches as Stiles and the Hale pack disappear into the trees.

  "Scott!" Nearly jumping out of his skin, Scott jerks around to see the Sheriff rushing towards him, gun aimed safely at the ground before he sees the carnage of the Windigos. "Scott, what the hell happened?" He puts a hand on his pseudo-son's shoulder, trying to shake him from the revere that he seemed to be in. "We got a call about some Windigos crossing the border, are there- Are there any left?"

  Scott barely manages to shake his head, staring at John, the man he'd grown closer to in Stiles' absence. Would he even believe his son was still alive? Did Scott even really believe it. "Stiles, he- Sheriff, Stiles was-" He sucks in a shaky breath as John shakes his head and lets out a soft sigh, patting his shoulder. He looks over Scott's shoulder.

  "Parrish! Bring McCall a blanket, would you?"

  Scott doesn't protest, because he feels the chill now, the chill he had almost forgotten had even bothered him. That temporary warmth seemed to have fled with the wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've got plot figured out now, so hopefully my writing will improve. I hate how this chapter came out, but if I don't put it up I never will so whoop. There it is.
> 
> EDIT 1/14/15: Updated formatting and spelling/grammar errors. I'm so sorry about all of those T*T I uploaded on mobile last time, so I missed a lot.


	3. Chapter 3 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _December 21st, 2010_
> 
>  
> 
> He moves closer to the couch and looks down at the kid, eyebrows pinched. Stiles looks too peaceful, and if it weren't for the werewolf hearing, he would think Stiles' heart had stopped.

  If there was anything Isaac was particularly good at, it would be fidgeting. Before his mother's death, he would never sit still, never stay in one place for long. He'd learned to contain himself better, control it, but it isn't really a wonder that with an unknown dying teen bleeding out on the couch, Isaac is standing in the doorway and quickly shifting his weight from foot to foot. He's too stressed to fully pace, but Derek seems to have covered that for him: he hasn't stopped moving ever since they'd carted the kid in from the forest, and the alpha doesn't show any signs of stopping.

  From the look on Erica's stricken face, she knows this kid, but Boyd seems unaffected as  he douses the kid's wounds in holy water before trying to clean them. Isaac is used to Boyd's somewhat cold disposition, but with the blank almost disinterest on his face, Isaac just fidgets more, twisting his fingers into the hem of his shirt; how Boyd can look at all that blood without feeling even a little bit queasy is a mystery to him.

  "What the hell is a nest doing here?" Derek growls, Erica's eyes following her alpha's pacing. "They have no business—"

  "Derek," Boyd says quietly. "we should really take him to the hospital."

  "And that worked so well last time," Erica snaps in response, voice shaking and slightly hysterical with the first words she's spoken since they got back. "They'd run us out, or, worse, think we were the ones to fuck him up." Her expression sours uncomfortably.

  Isaac watches the exchange, glancing quickly to Derek to see his reaction, but he surprisingly agrees with a grunt. He returns to his pacing, though, and Isaac knows it would be a bad time to butt in with concerns of his own. He wants to ask him why a nest would be attacking some random kid, wants to know if anyone else was hurt, if the kid lost someone. He wants to know everything, but Derek doesn't seem to know himself, so Isaac stays quiet.

  "Why wouldn't they go after the Argents?"

  Isaac looks up at Derek's mumble, but he isn't talking to any of them. They all see him tense, though, and Isaac quickly steps forward to gently nudge his shoulder with his nose, trying to be comforting; they can still hardly mention the Argents on a good day. And today is not a good day, not with the way the kid smells like smoke and death, and ash.

  But the nudge seems enough to calm him. With a deep breath, Derek continues walking a groove into the floor as Isaac joins Erica on the loveseat.

  Just as he is getting comfortable, the unconscious kid gives a short burst of breath, the smallest of twitches, and the whole pack perks up. But he remains just as unconscious as ever, and forces the pack to return to uncomfortable silence.

  Derek sighs harshly and clicks his heels together in agitation, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.  "How do you know him, Erica?"

  She looks up, her normal bluster and fluff deflating quickly. "Stiles , we- we went to the same school," she says faintly. Boyd looks up from his work sharply.

  " _This_  is Stiles?"

  Derek looks to him for explanation, Boyd dropping his eyes back to the tatters of Stiles' shirt. "She had it bad for him for years." He nods to Erica, and Isaac kind of wants to laugh, almost lets a smile loose, but with the tension of the room, he finds it inappropriate, and keeps it back. This kid just seems so out of Erica's usual type: Boyd. They couldn't be more different.

  Boyd finally stands, wiping his hands on a bloody rag with a sigh. Isaac knows the feeling: doing things like this never got any easier. "I've done what I can, but it's bad, Derek." He looks to his alpha meaningfully.

  "I know," he says quietly. "I can smell it." He moves closer to the couch and looks down at Stiles, eyebrows pinched. The kid looks too peaceful, and if it weren't for the werewolf hearing, he'd think Stiles' heart had stopped. He focuses on that sound for perhaps too long, intrigued by the way it leaps around like a werewolf's, stuttering and flighty, and Derek wonders if it is because of his wounds. It'd been a while since Derek had heard a heartbeat with so much _life_. Ironic, considering he is dying.

  Isaac watches Derek and feels a shudder down the pack bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do every other chapter a small snippet of Stiles' life with the pack before the main plot of the story (I'll refer to the snippets as Δ plot); I hope that isn't too confusing. Just working through my outline for the story, it seemed to happen a bit too fast with everything, and there's a lot I want to get to without too much exposition, so hopefully this is what'll work best for that.
> 
> I promised myself I would never try to tackle a story more than twenty chapters again, but I'm at fifteen chapters in my outline, and I'm not even halfway done, so buckle in. This one's gonna take a while.
> 
> Also, I'm not gonna fish for reviews or comments, but constructive criticism is absolutely welcomed; sometimes I'll be uploading on mobile, so any spelling/grammar/formatting/etc mistakes, just let me know! And I'm p bad at formatting on my computer even, so it seriously helps to have them pointed out. Ideas for the story? Misinformation? Concerns? I didn't tag something? Let me know those too! I love talking to my readers, even if it's about what spelling I fucked up this week.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The defeated slump to Stiles' shoulders is apparent from the kitchen counter where Jackson is leaning with his arms across his chest. He snorts, shakes his head, and retrieves his knife; he isn't sure who Stiles is trying to fool, not with how silent he's being.

  Jackson has never, and would never, claim to be the kindest of people, nor the most observant, but in the past year with the Hale pack, he's gotten pretty good at watching Stiles. He doesn't exactly make it difficult, even with their ability to read emotions: the kid wears his heart on his sleeve. And when they make it back to the house after the cemetery debacle, Stiles immediately sitting on the couch to update the Beastiary with his favorite raven-feather quill, Jackson knows something is off.

  If Stiles wants to act normal, the pack will follow his lead. Isaac quickly appropriates Stiles' lap for his feet, and Danny the back of the couch so he can put his legs on either side of Stiles' shoulders, leaning over to tease him. Erica seems too tense to sit comfortably, but she situates herself on Boyd's lap on the floor, looking the very picture of poise, if it weren't for her slightly-irregular heartbeat. In fact, they all look more than relaxed, but from where Jackson watches them in the kitchen, making dinner for the pack, the stifling sense of... _wrongness_  is almost overwhelming.

  Stiles' tongue is between his teeth, his concentration solely on the Beastiary, but his eye brows are furrowed. Stiles only does that when he's upset. The rest of the pack knows, but they try to act like nothing is the matter, somewhat out of respect, Jackson thinks; Stiles will talk to them when he's ready.

  Jackson still thinks he's an idiot, as since they were kids, but Stilinski usually knows what he's doing. Usually.

  Letting his eyes dart to Stiles' right hand, Jackson feels a tug on the bond, sort of like protective affection, and Stiles looks up for a moment to smile at him. But he quickly returns to his notes, and Jackson lets out a sigh.

  Danny seems to hear it, and starts to tease Stiles on his handwriting, and note-skills. Some of the tension leaves the house as the silence does, Isaac switching on the TV while Danny and Stiles have a quick squabble over the quill. Isaac stops on some hospital drama as Stiles is trying to push a laughing Danny off the back of the couch, and Jackson snorts, attempting to focus on the tomatoes he's chopping.

  "Guys, I can't hear Dr. Sexy," Isaac is complaining when Derek walks into the room from upstairs, smelling of steam and soap, and the room tenses almost automatically. Stiles and Danny shrink back into sitting positions, as if caught doing something bad.

  "Stiles, who was that?" Derek asks as he enters the room, not pausing to question his pack's good-natured bickering. Though he does scowl a bit, they all know that's his default expression.

  Scott, it seems, is the reason for the pack's sudden deflation, and made only worse by their irrational fear that Stiles will leave them for his old life. Jackson can't see that happening any time soon.

  As if on cue, Isaac switches off the TV and sits up so Stiles can slowly put the Beastiary in his lap, fidgeting with the cover. "Scott, he's... He was my best friend, from before the pack." Isaac huffs unhappily from the other end of the couch and burrows more into the pillow he's leaning against. Danny seems to feel the same way, leaning over to rest his chin on Stiles' fuzzy head, almost possessively. Jackson watches it with pursed lips, and sets his knife aside completely; he isn't going to get any cooking done with all the emotions charging the air.

  "And what was he doing in a graveyard?"

  Stiles shrugs and looks down, mumbling something about having no idea. Derek doesn't look pleased with this answer, not at all, and looks ready to launch into more questions, and Jackson can't quite see what changed his mind, but it looks like Danny had silenced him with a look. Jackson is quite impressed, as Derek closes his mouth with a huffed scowl, and moves towards the couch.

  Isaac scoots to make room, flipping around so his head is on the pillow on Stiles' lap. Stiles moves the Beastiary to the floor obligingly, setting it on the carpet next to the couch as if his work hadn't been interrupted halfway.

  The defeated slump to Stiles' shoulders is apparent from the kitchen counter where Jackson is leaning with his arms across his chest. He snorts, shakes his head, and retrieves his knife; he isn't sure who Stiles is trying to fool, not with how silent he's being.

  Stiles had never told Danny or him why he had never returned to Beacon Hills after the vampire attack, but he assumes it has everything to do with his dad. An argument or something. Stiles gracelessly switches topics when anyone so much as mentions his dad, so Jackson hasn't pressed like he's wanted to. And the earlier members of the pack won't talk about it either, not without Stiles' permission, so he and Danny have been left to wonder what could have been so bad that Stiles let his dad break down for months after his supposed death. Jackson can only guess that something else happened the night of the attack.

  Lydia is probably the only person that would ever be able to get it out of him, and with how busy she is with her training with a coven in France, she isn't in any place to give much thought to the whole situation; after all, she had been back for barely a month, just enough to make sure Danny would be alright before following Deaton's advice and flying out. She had been gone for just about a year now, Jackson thinks, pausing his chopping to blink and realize he didn't know exactly when she'd be coming back.

  He looks up to Stiles, sees him slumped and rather depressed, Isaac hugging his middle and Danny still bent over to be closer to him.

  Stiles makes eye contact with him for a split second again, and Jackson wonders just how unobservant Stiles thinks his pack is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in rereading all the stuff I have and my outline, I realize that this story is horribly cliche and just about every Teen Wolf trope ever, so my eternal apologies for anyone who forces themselves to sit through even one chapter. However, with my horrible tendency to never finish anything, I'm gonna finish it out. I have put a lot of time into the outline, and I'd never forgive myself if I just let it sit there. So again, I'm sorry for everything that happens in this story, especially all the out of character shit that has, and will continue to happen. 
> 
> (Chapter length is going to vary a lot. Sorry :/)
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	5. Chapter 5 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _August 5th, 2013_
> 
> Stiles jerks into a sitting position with an inward gasp, Derek's hand grabbing onto his shoulder to help keep him somewhat upright. Stiles looks around at the devastation that is the living room in the wake of what he can only assume is the witches. But more importantly, the carpet is scattered with the remains of the spell Stiles had been but moments from completing when...

  "Stiles!"

  Stiles isn't someone that wakes up easily on a good day with eight+ hours of sleep. It takes him an hour to get out of bed, another to get ready for the day, and maybe another for breakfast if he's feeling especially lazy.

  But with the sound of a door slamming open, and the frantic growling of his pack disturbing his "rest", Stiles jerks awake to find himself flat out on the floor of the living room, with a suspicious wet feeling dripping down from his temple. His head throbs, just furthering the overall sense of panic that seems to permeate the air, but Stiles can hardly focus enough to think what could be the cause.

  Someone rapidly taps his cheek and he blinks slowly, Derek's emotionally constipated face materializing above him, eyebrows pinched in that way that makes him look mad, but he's really just concerned. Stiles knows Derek's eyebrow language like the back of his hand by now, what with almost three years under his belt of having to read the complex little dance that they do especially when—

  "Stiles!"

  Stiles jerks into a sitting position with an inward gasp, Derek's hand grabbing onto his shoulder to help keep him somewhat upright. Stiles looks around at the devastation that is the living room in the wake of what he can only assume is the witches. But more importantly, the carpet is scattered with the remains of the spell Stiles had been but moments from completing when...

  When the window was smashed open, it looks like, from the shattered glass a couple of feet from where Stiles had been passed out.

  "Stiles, did something go wrong with the spell?" Derek is demanding when Stiles can focus on his alpha again, but he starts shaking his head and forces himself shakily up to his feet. And he feels so _sick_  because whoever attacked him took all his ingredients, all the herbs and crystals and the sacrifice of fucking human _remains_ — "I thought we had wards against the witches." Derek has risen too, but Stiles doesn't look at him, scrambling around the carpet for anything, anything that can still be of use.

  "We do. They must have a human companion; not even their familiars could have gotten in," he mutters faintly.

  "Where is everything?" Isaac sounds as if he's almost in awe, but Stiles knows he's masking his fear. No one is supposed to be able to get inside their home; Stiles had promised them the wards wouldn't allow danger to enter.

  "Gone. They either took it or destroyed it, a-and my money is on the latter, because everything would be useless after I started the spell, and I had, and when did they even have time to get—" He takes a shuddering, panicked breath, cutting his finger on a shard of glass from the window.

  He let one of them into their home. None of them were safe.

  " _Stiles_ ," Derek growls, with the inflection that he's said it several times. He finally gives up and grabs Stiles' hands, jerking him upwards roughly. But then his grip is gentle once Stiles is facing him, and Derek's expression soft, though still commanding. "What do you need from us?"

  Stiles draws a few quick breaths, the pounding in his head almost unbearable, but he does his best to ignore it; none of the pack believes his bluff. "W-We have most of it on the property. Herbs. I have a list. They're— We can find them all on the Hale property." He swallows, eyes still dancing around the room, hoping desperately that they had left the jar, the most important offering, because they could substitute almost everything else but just not... that. "Crystals are in the box under my bed." Isaac scurries off to retrieve them without prompting.

  Derek is nodding and almost shhing Stiles to keep him calm, rubbing his arm comfortingly, and, who is he kidding, it would probably work if Stiles wasn't missing two fucking body parts from a corpse Deaton had stolen from the County Morgue. The witches would be back, and too soon to replace them. They would have no time to get to Deaton, and back before the full moon was at its highest.

  "I've got the crystals," Isaac announces upon his return, carrying an ornate box, and Erica is crowding close to him, asking for the list of herbs. Stiles hands it over without really thinking about it, Boyd and the other betas hurrying out of the house to find them.

  Derek makes Stiles look up at him, frown deepening. "Stiles, was there anything else?"

  Stiles can barely make eye contact for more than a second. "Just one thing," he admits, steeling himself. "Something small, don't worry about it." He sounds sure, so sure, with no skip in his heartbeat, and Derek believes him. He's still suspicious, but he trusts him, because Stiles is looking at him with that earnestness that Derek hasn't seen in months.

  So maybe he just hopes.

//~//

  Stiles tries to drown out the growls that fill his ears like cotton as he hurriedly casts the magic circle around himself. His hands tremble, his breath wild gasping in his chest, and he can hardly draw the correct symbols in chalk, because there's an entire coven of fucking murderous witches surrounding him at every side, just barely being held back by his pack.

  Stress does not make for a good spell-casting environment.

  He nearly breaks a candle in his attempt to place it in the right corner of the circle, feet nearly slipping on the damp cement beneath his shoes. Lighting the candles is even harder, only just managing not to burn himself. _Believe_ , he reminds himself, trying to take deep breaths. _It takes belief._

  Hurriedly straightening, Stiles looks at the circle he's cast, actually quite proud of it, if he's being honest.

  He stands at the center, taking deep breaths. He allows himself exactly three seconds of worry for the pack before he yanks the bundle of herbs from his pocket and draws his white-hilted knife from the sheath at his thigh. He saws through the twine tying the herbs together and lets them drop.

  As soon as they hit the ground, deep purple sparks erupt from the lines of the circle, almost blinding him as he lets out a yelp of surprise. It's almost inaudible over the sudden howls of rage from the witches. Stiles' sight clears just enough to see one of them dive for him, and Derek narrowly manages to cut her off.

  Stiles looks up, connects his eyes with Derek's. If his alpha can't see his fear, he can certainly feel it through the bond, and it gives Derek just enough pause for Stiles to act.

  He sucks in a shuddering breath, not allowing himself to back out, because _he_  was supposed to keep his pack safe with those wards, was supposed to keep all evil out. And he hadn't even thought that they could have a human accomplice, or maybe a nix or a fairy. He hadn't even _considered_  anything else.

  So he knows he has to pay for that.

  Derek sees the determination, and disbelief, that flickers over Stiles' expression, and with a jolt he remembers Stiles' conviction when he brushed off Derek's worry with, " _Something small. Don't worry about it._ " And he hadn't been lying, because whatever Stiles is about to do, he truly believes that whatever is causing him so much fear is _deserved_. He remembers Stiles muttering about a jar that had been taken along with the other ingredients. Stiles had kept the recipe so secret, so close that he hadn't even thought...

  Stiles is slicing through the pinky and ring finger on his right hand before Derek can even move, like it doesn't hurt, like it really is a "small thing." Derek almost misses the knot in Stiles' jaw, the pained half-gasp, half-sob that escapes his lips, because his expression is so clear, Derek can hardly process what he had done.

  And just like every other climatic moment of his years fighting off whatever a fucking hellmouth can throw, Derek watches in slow motion as Stiles' severed fingers drop to land on the scattered herbs. He watches the light erupt tenfold and nearly blind him. A shockwave of power hits them all and knocks them back, with enough force to knock the breath from Derek's chest. He watches Stiles crumple from so far away, he knows he won't make it.

  With the startled yells of his pack in his ears, and the agonized screaming of the witches bouncing around his head, it takes Derek far too long to gain enough bearing to roll himself over from where he had been thrown. Even that small movement of back to side seems to draw every ounce of energy out of him. He has to stop so lights stop dancing across his vision.

  But still Derek pushes himself, forces himself to his feet, so he can stumble towards the broken circle where Stiles is flat on the ground for the second time that night. His pack is scattered, and the witches gone, but Derek hardly notices, his entire focus on Stiles' buckled form. The bond seems all but gone with the residual little waves of power that come from the charred remains of the spell's ingredients.

  Stiles doesn't react when Derek rolls him onto his back, slapping his cheek quickly in hopes of getting _something_  from him. Stiles just looks so out of breath, and so lost to the world, and Derek doesn't know what to _do._

  It would take Derek hours to finally get Stiles' eyes to focus. They aren't the same, after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doo do doo what an absolutely atrocious chapter. It's like that one really awful episode in a season that's actually okay. But then there's that one. episode. That's this chapter. I'm actually quite sorry for anyone that keeps trying to read this.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid-yawn, Stiles nearly chokes on his tongue. "A-Are you kidding?! These guys are protective enough _without_ Scott's scent all over the den! They're practically wild animals on a _good_ day!"

  Waking with a weight to his chest is not exactly something new for Stiles. For the first year, the hardest year, after leaving Beacon Hills, a morning didn't go by that Stiles didn't jerk awake gasping for breath, feeling the world pressing as hard as it could against his chest, as if it suddenly thought Stiles were the next Atlas. The pack helped shoulder some of that weight without complaint, without hesitation; they had been monumental in his slow recovery.

  Even now, most mornings are marked by at least one pack member pressing a hand firmly to his shoulderblades, a counterbalance so the feeling doesn't crush him completely.

  So, Stiles shouldn't be surprised when he wakes up feeling like the earth's gravity had decided to increase ten fold right over his sternum. In fact, he really isn't all that surprised, but even to his sleep-addled brain, he knows something is wrong.

  Different.

  He just lays there for a moment, eyes closed and one hand flopped uselessly over the edge of the couch, and focuses on the restrained _thump thump bathump_  of his heart against his ribs. According to the pack, he has an irregular heartbeat anyway, but Stiles doesn't think that's it. Even for him, it shouldn't be this hard to just _breathe_.

  As he tries to inhale a deeper breath, it feels like something is yanking on a chord in his chest, and at first, he thinks it's the pack bond. But, no, he can feel that just fine, beside this... new chord.

  A feminine sigh surprises Stiles out of his thoughts, head jerking around to look to the armchair that had been unoccupied when he'd fallen asleep. It is no longer vacant, a prim Lydia draped over it like she was born to do so. She holds a dusty tome in one hand, and if Stiles tilts his head just right, he can catch a glimpse of the contents; he isn't sure he wants to know what Lydia could possibly do with lambs' blood, rabbit toenail clippings and a crow's spleen.

  "Hey, Lyds—"

  She holds up a finger, not bothering to take her eyes from her book, and Stiles puffs out his cheeks in a pout. It's been over a year since they'd seen each other face to face, and this is how she greets him?

  Stiles huffs and makes to get up, but a snuffled whine and an arm tightening around his waist stops him, looking down to see Isaac wrapped protectively around him.

  He's in the middle of a puppy pile that had appropriated the couch, and therefore himself, surrounded by his pack tight enough that he finds it a miracle none of them had woken to his sudden jerk of consciousness. Stiles had grown use to them being quite in tune with his sleeping habits...

  "Oh, that would be my doing."

  Lydia smiles smugly and carefully closes her book. At Stiles' raised eyebrow, she just smirks wider. "Lyds, as much as I adore your smile, isn't it against Emissary codes or something to fuck with people's sleep?" he grumbles, his passed out pack suddenly making a lot more sense. How Danny got between him and Derek in the middle of the night, he's not sure, or how Jackson is comfortable half-hanging off the couch with one arm slung over Stiles' thigh, Stiles is just going to chalk up to Lydia's newfound bitch tactics.

  "Only if long term," she responds sweetly, too sweet, and crosses her other leg. Stiles huffs and flops back down onto the couch, wondering if he can sleep a little while longer with Lydia sitting there, but she has other plans, snapping her fingers to keep him awake. "Not a chance, Stilinski. What were you dreaming about?"

  He can't mask his falter, not with her focus on him, but he does his best, giving a weak shrug before switching topics. "Is your training done then, Buffy?"

  Lydia doesn't respond for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to humor him. "A year and a day yesterday; I've been home all of ten minutes." She swings up to her heeled feet and pads over to the puppy pile. She runs her fingers over Jackson's head affectionately, allowing her expression to slip for the barest moment. Then she looks up at Stiles sharply, pursing her lips.

  She doesn't say anything though, Stiles shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. He tries to smile. "And why are you doing sleepy magic on the pack? Did you and Jackson break up again?"

  Lydia snorts unamusedly, moving to sit back down and pick her book up again. But she just sets it in her lap and fiddles with the spine. "You were having a nightmare when I got back, and if Isaac isn't waking up to your smallest twitch, they're all use to it." Her gaze glances to Derek for a quick second. "You conveniently left that part out of our Skype calls."

  Stiles winces and looks away. "No offense, Lyds, but you thought I was dead a year ago."

  "And that changes my concern for you how?" She answers so quickly, Stiles doesn't have time to do anything but flap his lips helplessly, and there's a tug on his chest again, but he has no doubt that it is the pack bond this time. Maybe he'd imagined it before.

  Sighing, Lydia flicks her hair over her shoulder in attempt to remain poised; Stiles knows her well enough to know that much. "Since you have the emotional capabilities of a badger, I'm assuming you haven't told anyone—"

  "Badgers are emotional," Stiles mutters and slouches further down the couch, while Lydia just plows on.

  "—anyone what your dreams are about, and I don't think you're going to start now, but as your Emissary—"

  "Aren't Emissaries supposed to keep the _wolves_  human? I'm already human."

  "Stiles!"

  He shuts up quickly, sending her an apologetic look. She has a pinch to her eyebrows that Stiles hasn't seen in months, and he swallows guiltily, averting his gaze to pick at his hoodie. "Gisselle, one of the witches I was studying with, taught me to interpret dreams, maybe I can—"

  "Lyds, there's nothing you can... get from my dreams that I don't already know. It's just memories and stuff. 'Sides, last night's weren't exactly the garden variety I've always had."

  He almost immediately regrets saying it, when Lydia perks up and leans forward earnestly, and Stiles has to resist the urge to shrink away. "Why? Did something happen?" Eyes flicking over her face, he has a feeling that she'll get it out of him anyway, and though part of him wants to keep fighting, the other half is just tired.

  Tired enough that he says, "We saw Scott yesterday," before he really knows what he's doing.

  Surprise is a bit of an understatement to describe the expression Lydia is watching him with; Stiles could even go so far as label it confused. "Talked to him, even," he adds, tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve.

  Lydia slowly puts her book on the ground next to the Beastiary, folding her free hands in her lap. "He was there for the Windigo attack?" Figures Derek would tell her.

  "I think he knew the vic," Stiles admits reluctantly.

  "I'm going to make the educated guess that you haven't told any of them your history with Scott?" Stiles slowly shakes his head as Lydia's frown deepens. "So what's with the puppy pile, if they don't know?"

  He shrugs again. "I think they're scared I'll leave them? Isaac and Erica, at least."

  Snorting, Lydia crosses her legs again as she allows the tension in her shoulders to dissipate. Stiles can only join, if Lydia has decided to give up on interrogating him. "Maybe you should have Scott over for dinner sometime."

  Mid-yawn, Stiles nearly chokes on his tongue. "A-Are you kidding?! These guys are protective enough _without_  Scott's scent all over the den! They're practically wild animals on a _good_  day!"

  Isaac lets out a slow whine, yanking Stiles' focus down to the pouty boy that has his chin on Stiles' stomach. Around him, the rest of the pack is slowly waking, looking to him with hurt.

  Stiles flings a glare in Lydia's direction as she stands and is immediately swarmed by Jackson and Danny. "Oh, but they were awake for _that_?"

  "Stilinski, if you're not off your ass in three seconds making me pancakes, I might be tempted to use my new witchy powers on you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia, Isaac and Danny are going to be the hardest for me to figure character out for, so I apologize profusely; this is my first time writing any of these characters, and I'm already shit at Stiles; just imagine how bad everyone else is gonna be.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	7. Chapter 7 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _November 19th, 2013_
> 
> Finally, just as Erica and Isaac stumble through the door, Derek can't seem to stand it, and grabs Stiles' arm to drag him towards the kitchen. Normally, their conversation wouldn't be private, but with Erica and Isaac distracted by Jackson's return, and the potential for another packmate, Derek seems to hope they won't notice.

   Boyd use to be someone that coveted quiet, sought it out, but with the den near silent with a distinct lack of the other wolves, something doesn't sit right in his skin. It itches. Pains him, even.

  Maybe it's because he can hear Stiles' heartbeat from across the room, but the human isn't filling the quiet  like he should be. Boyd watches him type away at his keyboard with tight lips and an even tighter silence, almost as if ignoring Boyd's presence.

  Stiles painstakingly forces himself to press the keys on his worn computer, a piece of crap that Derek had gotten for him at the local pawnshop when it became clear that he would be staying with them. Normally, this occurrence wouldn't be out of the ordinary; Isaac and Stiles had a running gag about Stiles being in a committed relationship with the computer. The Plankton jokes had been an unbearable constant to the den for days.

  But there's still that itch of _wrongness_  that claws at Boyd's arms, at his neck and his legs and his sides. Because Stiles doesn't speak, and the clacking is subdued, slow, pained. Ever since Stiles could move his hand without passing out, he'd set himself to relearning to do simple tasks, with now eight fingers. He'd picked it up fairly quickly, from what Boyd had seen, especially for it having only been three months.

  That, of course, meant that the pain was sometimes still agonizing, the most tangible thing they could get from Stiles down the bond since the witches had attacked. It's always worse when Stiles continued to force himself to do things just so he can act normal again. Even Derek can't bring himself to tell him to stop.

  Every now and then, Stiles glances up to the window, to the darkening sky outside. The rest of the pack isn't due back until morning, on a run for the New Moon. After the witches, and with the uncertainty that the wards would hold against attack, they'd taken to leaving someone with Stiles at all times, even on Full and New Moons. Boyd, usually, considering the ease of control he has over his wolf compared to the other betas; it's clear to everyone that Derek would rather be the one staying, but he wouldn't leave anyone else in charge of his betas on Full Moons.

  New Moons were easier anyway, so Isaac could have feasibly been the one to keep Stiles company, but even Isaac hadn't been able to get Stiles out of his shell, and Boyd knew how helpless that made him. Besides, if Stiles wanted to sit in silence, Boyd is probably the best for that anyway.

  For the first month or so, Stiles had put up the front of annoyance at the "babysitting", as he'd called it, but he'd given up after a while, having to admit that he wasn't fooling anyone: he'd probably only break down if they were to leave him alone. And Boyd knows better than all of them the comfort and thanks Stiles exudes when they're alone.

  And Boyd wants to respect that ploy for silence that Stiles seems to be after, the space to heal emotionally, but it still makes his wolf itch and growl and shift unhappily; it had been a long three months of often restless nights for all of them. Boyd can only imagine how Derek's wolf is taking the pack unrest.

  Stiles looks up at the tug on the pack bond that Boyd feels just as the sound of tires screeching on gravel reaches his ears. They make eye contact in confusion and surprise, since the pack hadn't needed to take a car to the preserve that was a mere hundred yards from the house.

  "Boyd!"

  Stiles is on his feet just as quickly as Boyd is, racing to the front door because that's _Jackson's_  voice, and they hadn't heard from him since he moved with his family—

  Boyd yanks open the door and is halfway down the steps before he even registers that Lydia and Jackson are unloading a limp Danny from the backseat of Jackson's porsche. Taking the distance in a few short strides, Boyd quickly replaces Lydia at Danny's side, looping the teen's arm over his shoulders. He barely catches Jackson's thankful look.

  Danny's a mess of blood and bruises, and judging by the blood all over Jackson, their pseudo packmate is probably to blame. Lydia seems unhurt but just as bloody, her heels forgotten in the car as she hurries up the steps of the porch.

  She holds the door open for them, pale and with hair in disarray, but she seems calm, calm enough not to lose her head. Boyd is thankful for that, because Jackson seems moments from breaking down.

  They burst into the room as Stiles is throwing a canvas tarp over the large table, the previous contents of a plate and three mugs thrown carelessly to the floor. "Put him down," Stiles says unnecessarily as Boyd is helping Jackson heft Danny onto the table on his back, but their human seems distracted enough trying to get their magical first aid kit from the top shelf of the bureau.

  Boyd steps back, makes Jackson do so as well, and watches as Stiles sinks into his role as vet, as Isaac likes to tease. But Stiles truly is in his element when helping the pack, because all traces of forlornness and depression have disappeared to make way for the assured, _confident_  Stiles that orders Lydia to get more bandages as he's slicing away the remains of Danny's tattered shirt. It's comforting, after so many weeks of Stiles looking listless and confused.

  Jackson presses weakly against the arm Boyd has over his chest, looking stricken and not able to tear his eyes from his best friend on the table. The one moment that Jackson isn't watching Danny, his eyes find Stiles' hand, his face paling several more shades.

  "Boyd, I need a bucket of warm water," Stiles snaps, already grinding several different herbs in a stone mortar. Boyd nods, shoving Jackson into one of the chairs so he doesn't fall over, before obeying Stiles' command and heading to the kitchen.

  When he returns, Jackson is pacing, and Stiles is cutting away the rest of the shirt so it doesn't get in the way. Stiles offers Boyd a tight smile when he sets down the bucket, before focusing on Danny's injuries. Yes, Boyd rather liked that Stiles was their designated doctor, because even though he has the attention span of a cocker spaniel, damn, the kid could focus when it counted.

  "How long ago did you bite him?" Stiles is demanding, straight to the point and not bothering to ask exactly what had happened; there's blood on Jackson's lips. It doesn't take a genius.

  Jackson starts, looking up at him as if he'd forgotten he was there. "I don't— I don't know, a few hours?"

  "Six." Lydia strides into the room with all of their extra bandages as Stiles is cleaning the last of the blood from Danny's chest. Over Stiles' shoulder, Boyd can count three bites, the first two not all that deep, but the third looks uncontrolled and rather horrid. Small scratches litter his torso.

  Stiles nods and starts slapping the herb poultice he'd concocted onto Danny's cleaned wounds. Jackson swallows and inches closer, ignoring the quick glare that Stiles sends him in warning. "Is he—"

  "Danny's strong," Stiles cuts in, suddenly calm as he reaches over to put a hand on Jackson's shoulder. He'll smell like herbs for days, but Jackson doesn't push him off, even accepting the small smile Stiles offers. "The bite will take; there's no reason for it not to."

  To Boyd's surprise, Jackson seems comforted by Stiles' reassurances, because he distinctly remembers Jackson being infuriated when he'd woken from the bite to find Stiles a part of the pack.

  Perhaps the distance of Jackson being in LA for so much of their time as pack helped, Boyd muses as Stiles beckons Lydia over to help him start bandaging Danny. Separation makes the heart grow fonder, and all that? Boyd reminds himself to ask Derek later.

  Stiles looks up before any of them, a moment before the distressed howl from outside the house rattles the windowpanes. The danger has passed, but Derek doesn't know that, made abundantly clear when their alpha burst into the house, looking panicked and more than a little unsteady under his carefully-crafted scowl.

  In fact, if Boyd looks close enough, it hardly seems as if Derek is trying to cover up his worry, wasting no time in making his way over to them. He stops in front of Stiles and grabs his injured hand. "You're bleeding," he says quietly, voice edged with exertion.

  Stiles  yanks his hand free as soon as he snaps out of his surprise, looking to his alpha in disbelief. "I'm fine, moron. Did you even see Danny?" He waves spastically towards the bloody table.

  Derek huffs and his scowl deepens, looking from Danny to Jackson, then back to Stiles. "He's fine. He's already healing."

  That's all Jackson seems to need to hear, collapsing back into the chair Boyd had previously shoved him into, burying his face in his hands. Lydia joins him gracefully in the chair next to him, rubbing his shoulder and cooing softly.

  But Boyd could really care less about that, watching Derek and Stiles' silent battle of wills from across the table.

  Finally, just as Erica and Isaac stumble through the door, Derek can't seem to stand it, and grabs Stiles' arm to drag him towards the kitchen. Normally, their conversation wouldn't be private, but with Erica and Isaac distracted by Jackson's return, and the potential for another packmate, Derek seems to hope they won't notice.

  And they don't, really, but Boyd moves a step closer to the kitchen after them, tilting his head just so as Derek hisses,

  "What the hell were you thinking?! You shouldn't be doing magic when you're injured!"

  "He would have bled out before the bite took!" Stiles retorts hotly. "Do you even know how broken Jackson would have been if he killed Danny? His best friend? One of his packmates? I don't think even Lydia could—"

  " _You're_  pack too, Stiles," Derek sighs, and Boyd can taste the exasperation in his voice, can almost see Derek pinching his nose in a frustrated way that only Stiles can bring out.

  Stiles is silent, like he's surprised Derek would say it, would admit it willingly and out loud. Boyd is even a little hurt, because when have they treated him as anything but pack? Okay, there was the first month or so after they'd found him, full of half-growls and glares and a frightened young teen, but since then?

  "Don't look at me like that, Stiles," Derek huffs. "No, no, stop grinning at me. Stop."

  Boyd inches back to the group when it's clear the two of them are returning, taking a seat next to Isaac. Derek's ears are pink when he finally pushes open the door, and Stiles is grinning like a loon, for the first time since the witches. They all feel the change in the bond.

  Lydia looks up, before quickly moving to hug Stiles, more of a tackle, really. She crushes him in her arms with whispered thanks that they can all hear.

  Looking respectfully away, Boy looks instead to Derek, who is recovering from the automatic glare he had sent Lydia. "What do we do now?"

  Jackson peeks up from his hands, still looking devastated but relaxing, slowly. Derek rubs the back of his neck as he looks over Danny's body, taking in the mess of bandages and herbs that has become his torso.

  "Jackson, get him to one of the beds. He's healing, but we can help it along." Derek gives Jackson a meaningful look, and Boyd realizes Derek doesn't want to say it aloud. Why, Boyd can't imagine.

   But then Derek sends a quick glance to Stiles, and Boyd wants to laugh. Derek doesn't want Stiles to hear him say it.

   Boyd can't hold in the snort of disbelief, because Stiles already knows; they'd "helped it along" when Stiles came to them injured.

  Of course, Stiles is just as clueless as ever, and doesn't say anything about it, but the half-hurt expression Stiles is aiming at the back of Derek's head is absolutely hilarious.

  And that's when Boyd laughs, a real, full-blown, albeit quiet, laugh. The look they all give him only makes him snort again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Δ will probably be about Stiles' first few days with the pack. I don't remember what I have planned out for it.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of Stiles' third set of pancakes, Derek's small smile disappears, tugged into a tight frown as he feels the bond twist. At first, he thinks it's because Lydia is back, but then it _hurts_ , and it feels like a centaur's kicked him in the chest (and that comes from first-hand experience; last spring was not a happy time for the pack).

   There isn’t much Stiles can actually do for the pack that isn’t doing laundry or patching them up when they come home injured. His mother had been a fantastic cook, could have opened her own restaurant and everything, but Stiles is shit at it. Anything from toast to tacos, Stiles is absolutely horrid at cooking. It often had to do with open flames and ovens turned up too high, but the fact remains: Stiles Stilinski cannot cook.

  Except pancakes.

  If there was one positive thing he could say about himself, Stiles would without hesitation answer he could make the best damn pancakes you'd ever have. They were the only thing his mom had been successful at teaching him to make; really, the only thing she'd had time to teach before she'd been admitted to hospice.

  Lydia sets herself up at the island counter to do what Stiles deems "witchy-shit", while the rest of the pack falls into an easy routine around him. The first pack members had built a ritual of sorts when Stiles takes over the kitchen to make pancakes, Isaac making the bacon, Erica and Boyd slicing fruit on an open counter, Derek watching from the edge of the island to make sure Stiles doesn't burn himself. Early in figuring out this strange system, they'd tried to help Stiles with the ingredients, and learned pretty quick that there are only two ways Stiles would ever stoop to yell at them: if they got too rough with their play fighting, and if they fucked with his pancakes.

  They're his last connection to his mom, and everything had to be done just right. Stiles isn't a precise person; with potions and spells, he kind of just throws ingredients at it until it works, but not with his mom's pancakes. He holds the measuring cups up to the light to make sure the flour is even, bends down to counter-level to make sure he doesn't use even a drop too-much milk, stirs and folds the batter exactly forty two times.

  Fitting Danny and Jackson into this routine had taken time, though it had been clear pretty soon enough that Jackson was particularly useless, so he sits next to Lydia and tries to complete Derek's crossword in that morning's paper. Danny is in charge of setting the table and making sure everyone has juice.

  They have it all down to a science, Isaac finishing the bacon as soon as Stiles is ready with the batter, Danny done with the plates in time to get a bowl for the fruit. Jackson is still useless, and has barely gotten through 1 across by the time Stiles is pouring the first pancake onto the griddle, something Stiles finds abundantly hilarious every time they cajole him into making breakfast.

  Having Lydia there is a bit strange after so long with just the wolves, and Isaac is still rather intimidated by her, skirting around her chair when he has to pass by her to put the bacon on the table, but they all seem to glow with the happiness that their emissary is back home and safe. There's a contentment to the air that settles on their skin like glitter, and even Derek is relaxed, the tense knot that is usually his shoulders loose and almost gone completely. Stiles' spark flickers happily to have them all in the same room for the first time in over a year.

  Derek watches Stiles from over the lip of his coffee mug, watching the way he's more in his element here than he's seen him anywhere else: he doesn't trip over his feet when Isaac nearly knocks the coffeepot into him, easily bends around Boyd for the powdered sugar, is light on his feet in a way you just don't see Stiles. He's clumsy at best, and seeing him this... free, Derek doesn't quick know what to do with himself. His wolf chirrs contently that Stiles moves so seamlessly with the other wolves.

  Lydia has a knowing smile on her face, and Erica is stage whispering to Boyd about boners, but Derek doesn't seem to hear them, something the girls seem all too pleased about.

  Jackson pointedly ignores them.

  In the middle of Stiles' third set of pancakes, Derek's small smile disappears, tugged into a tight frown as he feels the bond twist. At first, he thinks it's because Lydia is back, but then it _hurts_ , and it feels like a centaur's kicked him in the chest (and that comes from first-hand experience; last spring was not a happy time for the pack).

  Lydia knocks her glass of orange juice to the ground as she lets out a soft gasp, and Derek is sure he's never heard something so broken. They exchange a wide-eyed look, but Derek's attention is yanked from his emissary to Stiles as the smallest of breaths escapes his lips, before he collapses to kitchen floor and sends his spatula flying.

  The next few moments are a blur, the pack erupting into panic. Isaac makes it to Stiles' side first, but Erica pushes him aside without hesitation as soon as she sees Stiles eyes are still open. Distantly, Derek knows what that means.

  But he stands frozen next to the island as the pack swarms their human, letting Erica take charge. She snaps at Isaac to give her his shirt, turns Stiles on his side, checks his pulse, does everything the alpha should be doing.

  Every bone in Derek screams to help his beta, instincts on fire to _fix fix fix help pack hurt helphelphelp_ , but he’s rooted to the spot, watching Erica shove Isaac’s shirt under Stiles’ head as he starts twitching weakly, eyes miles away. Even from here, even without werewolf senses, Derek would be able to hear how painfully short and shallow Stiles’ breath has become, as if something is lodged deep in his chest.

  Boyd hangs back too, and there’s a cold, dark look in his eyes, possibly memories, but something in Derek still refuses to acknowledge what is truly going on.

  Erica is dutifully checking her watch, and it can’t have been more than a minute, but Isaac is trying not to keen, and Danny is sitting next to Stiles with a loose grip on his wrist, and Jackson just looks so lost, it staggers Derek for a moment what Stiles means to all of them. Of course he’s pack, and it’s far from unheard of for packs to include humans, but sometimes Derek forgets that pack is just as much a family as blood.

  The quick gasp of breath from Stiles has Derek’s heart leaping into his throat, and the pack surges forward as one. Stiles’ tense muscles go lax, breath shuddering in and out of his chest hollowly. His eyes dart around the kitchen in confusion, and he just looks so _tired_ , eyes overbright, lips pale. His gaze finds Isaac’s, then Erica’s, who smiles at him tightly.

  “Welcome back, batman,” she says as Stiles looks to the rest of the pack; he even looks surprised to find Jackson standing so close to him.

  “Wha—”

  “It looks like you had a seizure,” Erica interrupts, and just like that, the tension breaks, like the admission pushes them into the clear. Isaac grumbles about his shirt being all dirty now, Danny gets to his feet and switches off the stove, which has been burning the pancakes still on the griddle, and Lydia stops gripping her pen so tightly her knuckles are white.

  Derek is thankful that all their hearts are pounding, so none of them can here the skips his keeps taking.

  They all still look concerned, of course, but when Derek glances to Lydia, she looks stricken. She looks downright horrified, and it looks more like she could no longer hold her pen than a voluntary decision to drop it. They make eye contact as Isaac is hefting Stiles up from the floor.

  Stiles cracks some joke that Derek doesn’t hear, because Lydia realizes at the same time he does that none of the rest of the pack felt it; later, Lydia will tell him it almost felt like a burn, but now, all they know is that there’s no way hell that it’s a coincidence, the timing of it all.

  Derek tears his eyes from Lydia at the feather-light touch to his arm. Stiles has his fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist, and he must look worse than he thinks, because Stiles frowns at him. “I’m alright, sourwolf. Cheer up.” He squeezes Derek’s wrist, lips tugging into a tired smile, and what Derek wouldn’t give to believe him.

  The pack doesn’t say anything about the exchange, migrating with Stiles to the couch, but Lydia moves to Derek instead. Her perfectly-manicured fingers wrap just above where Stiles’ had been, standing as close as she can.

  “Derek,” she says quietly.

  He just nods, watching Stiles a moment longer, before pulling his phone from his pocket and speed-dialing Deaton.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this saved as a draft and totally forgot I didn't upload it. Though, I'm not sure how many people are hanging off their seats for an update, so I suppose the point is moot.
> 
> For anyone still reading this, I desperately need help. This is my first fic for the fandom, the first time trying out any of these characters. Most of the time, I've roleplayed characters before I've tried writing them, but I haven't with this, and I need to know how to improve. I'm p sure they're all out of character, and I'm such a stickler for that, but I'm having a lot of trouble figuring out how to fix it. Any suggestions or tricks or anything, just, please, help me. I want to be good at this and it's far more difficult for this fandom than I gave it credit for. 
> 
> Also, I think I'll rework this once I've finished. Rewrite it, mostly likely, but definitely fix continuity, and chronology, and maybe stop with the every-other-chapter-thing I have going. I can't see myself abandoning this fandom any time soon, so hopefully I'll make it to that point, and hopefully by then, I'll be better with these characters.
> 
> My deepest apologies and thanks for those that have made it this far. I don't think readers sometimes realize how much it means for people to even attempt to read works like these. So, really, thank you. Sorry it's not close to par with the other fics in the fandom; I am trying, I promise.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	9. Chapter 9 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 2nd, 2014_
> 
> He waves his hand vaguely, forces a small smile. Lydia isn't buying it, obviously, and it only takes a minute of her giving him her "Your bullshit doesn't amuse me" look before he caves, slouching again and whining.
> 
> "You're worse than Derek, I swear to god, Lydia."

   Lydia's face falls as soon as the Skype call connects, eyes taking in Stiles' shirt with so much disdain, it's as if Stiles had just told her her favorite goldfish had died.

  He looks down at himself, at the _"Bite Me"_  tee-shirt Isaac had gotten him ironically for the Christmas the year before. He'd at first worn it ironically, but after a couple of times throught he wash, it's become his most comfortable shirt, and he's taken to wearing it when he's wandering the empty house any time the pack is out. Granted, this is the first time the pack has left him alone since the witch attack, and he hasn't been doing all that much wandering, but the point remains: it feels like clouds.

  "What?" he demands, wondering if it's his flannel she looks so done with.

  "Please tell me you haven't been dressing like that since I left."

  Stiles sticks out his tongue. "I've been dressing like this since I was fourteen," he defends, but Lydia's face falls even further.

  "What does Derek have to say about that?"

  "Why would Derek care?" He raises an eyebrow.

  Lydia sends him a rather pitying look, as if he's a turtle that rolled onto its shell and can't get back over, which, rude, but changes the subject. "How's Danny doing?"

  Stiles isn't proud that he can be so easily distracted, but there is _pining_  going on, honest-to-god _pining_  and Stiles has so little tolerance for that bullshit he can barely articulate it to their emissary in training. "Lydiiiia, you have to come back. Jackson is giving Danny _doe-eyes_. Doe-eyes, Lydia. On Jackson. You have to save me from this bullshit." He slouches down, watches Lydia smile, and that feels good; the Skype calls since November have been tense, a lot of 'Are you alrights' and 'Can I do anythings' and Stiles is supremely over it. This, this is good. "Jackson helped him out of the car the other day. Danny makes Jackson's goddamn cereal. OH, and don't even get me started on the whining about you. They're insufferable. Derek is at his wit's end with it all, and I think Erica's started taking pictures of them sleeping please come back we miss you." Stiles is pleased to see Lydia preen under the attention, drumming her fingers on the worn desk she's sitting at. Stiles grins.

  After a moment, Lydia's expression softens, and Stiles cringes; he'd thought they were over this. "And what about you, Stiles?"

  "What about me?" he hedges.

  "How are _you_?"

  He waves his hand vaguely, forces a small smile. Lydia isn't buying it, obviously, and it only takes a minute of her giving him her "Your bullshit doesn't amuse me" look before he caves, slouching again and whining.

  "You're worse than Derek, I swear to god, Lydia."

  Stiles immediately wants to backtrack the moment Lydia gets that sparkle in her eye, the one that means Stiles isn't going to hear the end of this. "How so?"

  "Other than the nagging part? You're both stunningly gorgeous, perfect, a fucking hurricane with a temper, and apparently professional Stiles lie detectors."

  "What has he been doing?"

  "Oh, you should have seen his face when we had a truce meeting with some local hunters. Someone insulted my manhood or some shit, and Derek pulled me aside later to make sure I was 'alright'." Air Quotes and all.

  Lydia looks particularly amused by this, leaning her cheek into her palm with a cheeky smile to her lips. Stiles raises an eyebrow expectantly, but she changes the subject again.

  "Has Deaton checked the work you did on those witch wards?"

  He tries to keep from deflating, he really does, but he kicks at the floor to spin his chair a little, avoiding her eye. "You know what? I have no idea. He says they'll hold, but I don't know if that means they're only good for now, or for the first attack, or what. He likes you: you ask."

  "I assure you he is just as cryptic with me."

  Stiles groans. "How's France, then?"

  "Quite lovely this time of year, though I miss the preserve." She sighs wistfully, but Stiles just rolls his eyes.

  "Sure you do, Lyds. Just because you're connected to the earth doesn't mean you have to love local flora. I mean, look at me. I'm closer to a druid than you are."

  Her face contorts, pursing her lips. "Stiles, about that—"

  "Stiles!"

  They both jump as Danny bursts into the room, looking far too out of breath for a werewolf, no matter how far he's run. He doesn't even seem to notice Lydia as he yanks Stiles to his feet and gives him a bone-crushing hug for a split-second. After that it's the daily "check Stiles for injuries" time, though they usually do that once the whole pack is home; Stiles has a habit of earning at least two bruises a day from various pieces of furniture.

  But Danny is frantic, pushing aside Stiles' clothing, hands everywhere, and there's a streak of soot across his cheek that makes Stiles' stomach twist.

  "Danny. What happened," Stiles demands more than asks as soon as Danny seems satisfied with his safety.

  "We found a body, and it smelled so much like you, and Derek's freaking out and even Isaac can't calm him down because he's wrecked too, and _Jackson_ —"

  Stiles claps a hand over Danny's mouth, making Danny look at him. "Breathe, Danny." Stiles can feel him suck in a breath and shakily let it out against his palm; he takes a few more before Stiles is satisfied and releases him.

  But Danny is back to being distraught, gasping out, "Stiles, you have to come with me, Derek's gonna lose it—"

  With a quick swallow, Stiles stops him again, not wanting to know what Derek would do if he lost another pack member; there had been enough close calls with everyone after the fire, and more than enough concerning Stiles himself. He'd like to avoid that.

  He turns around to smile thinly at Lydia's tightly-controlled expression. "Sorry, Lyds. I'll call you back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be updating pretty quickly the chapters that I missed during my impromtu hiatus. 
> 
> I'll probably do this chapter from Isaac's POV later in the fic, if I think that knowing exactly what happened will help the plot.
> 
> T*T Thank you guys so much for the positive feedback on the last chapter; I really wasn't expecting that and it meant the world.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay, I'll humor you. If it is the Hale pack, regardless of if Danny and Jackson are wolves, how does it change the situation? Megan is dead, the Windigos are taken care of, there aren't any loose ends. Are you saying we should send them a fruitbasket as thanks?"

   Danny hadn't been close to Stiles when Beacon Hill suffered its first supernatural terrorist attack. Sure, he'd been on his radar, after Danny'd been brought into the station at the age of thirteen for hacking. Stiles had been there, had come with his dad to work that day, so, sure, Danny knew about him, but they'd never talked. Jackson didn't like Scott because Melissa was the one to give him shots, so therefore didn't like Stiles, and by association, Danny wasn't supposed to like them either.

  So Danny doesn't remember much about Stiles before a broken coven of vampires attacked the Stilinski home. He remembers the morning after, though.

  Danny's family lived about a mile from the Stilinskis, and he remembers waking to the earliest hours of the morning to see the smoke curling above the rooftops. He'd had his window cracked so he could know if it snowed, and it had, but instead of smelling fresh, the air had been saturated with ash and the acrid smell of death.

  Or, what he'd assumed was death. No one had actually died that night, as it is abundantly clear by the fact Stiles has taken to curling up under his arm whenever he needs a nap. Like he is now, his chin pressed against Danny's chest, breath warming his shirt. Danny doesn't mind it anymore, the pack use to Stiles using them as cushions, mattresses, or even tables. Though Danny hasn't been pack nearly as long, Stiles has a particular fondness for Danny's chest as a pillow.

  "Shouldn't Deaton be here by now?" Jackson mutters to Derek, though he should really know by now that whispering doesn't really do anything.

  Derek is pacing behind the couch, looking more agitated than he has in a while. Isaac has his head in Stiles' lap, though Erica is fidgeting close by enough that Danny is sure Isaac won't be there for long.

  "He said he would come as quickly as possible," Derek grits out, twisting something around his thumb. A ring, Danny thinks, but he's never seen it up close.

  "That could take hours!"

  "Jackson, shut up."

  Danny glances down at Stiles and sighs through his nose, raising a hand to pat his head. Stiles makes a snuffling noise and snuggles closer.

  Like dogs hearing a doorbell, the wolves in the room perk up at the sound of footsteps approaching the front door, Isaac scrambling to his feet to make it there first. Even with his inherent werewolf grace, the beta manages to trip over his own feet on his way to yank the door open before Derek can even get around the couch.

  Danny is busy rubbing soothing circles into the nape of Stiles neck when Isaac returns with Deaton meandering in behind him, a nondescript folder tucked under his arm. Lydia sits up straighter and fixes Deaton with a glare before he can even open his mouth.

  "Derek and I both felt it too."

  Isaac sends Derek a half-hurt pout, seeking confirmation. Even though Derek doesn't say anything, the apologetic look he gives Isaac is proof enough. Isaac deflates a little, sitting back down next to Stiles.

  Deaton sighs inwardly and takes the remaining chair, setting the folder in his lap. "I too felt it. Through the leylines."

  "The what?" Stiles asks tiredly, vibrating Danny's chest with his voice. Danny looks down at him, huffs out through his nose; Stiles just looks like he wants to sleep, and Danny is full support of that. Of course, he can't, until Deaton leaves.

  "Think of it like subway lines for magical energy," Lydia says quickly, turning her attention back to the vet; Danny remembers Derek mentioning them before, something to do with the old Hale pack. "Derek and I felt it through the bond."

  "The bond...?" Deaton looks to Derek as if expecting an explanation, one eyebrow raised. But Derek is just as confused as anybody, even more so now that Deaton thinks he knows what's going on. But Deaton turns back to Stiles before asking anything of the alpha, thumbing the edge of the folder. "Mr. Stilinski, have you had seizures in the past?" Stiles flings a glare at him, jaw tense against Danny's shoulder. "Humor me."

  "No."

  "So we can rule out coincidence." Judging by the look on Lydia's face, she's three seconds away from throwing one of her heels at him, but he plows on. "When was your last panic attack?"

  The atmosphere turns icy, and Stiles along with it, going tense against Danny. Isaac feels it too, scooting closer to them. In fact, the whole pack moves closer on instinct. "None of your business."

  "Mr. Stilinski—"

  "Cut to the chase, Allen," Lydia interrupts, tone as cold as the temperature in the room, and far more dangerous.

  Deaton sighs again; Danny thinks he needs a translator or something. "I've been in contact with a coven in Los Angeles, and we believe there was a... pulse of some kind."

  "A pulse?" Isaac asks, though immediately quiets under Deaton's glare.

  "Yes, a pulse. A short burst of energy. We believe it came from the Nemeton."

  The rest of the pack perks, but out of the corner of his eye, Danny sees Derek go white. "It hasn't been active since before my mother was alpha."

  Stiles looks up at him quickly, with a frown that Danny understands; Derek hardly ever talks about his family, his mother even less.

  "I am aware. I have believed it to be long since dead. Even the leylines have been subdued for near a hundred and fifty years."

  "What changed, then?"

  "I do not know." Deaton looks back to Derek. "I suggest you look into it before someone from the town does."

  Derek gives a short nod.

  "That doesn't answer the question why I had a fucking seizure over it, or why Derek was able to feel it."

  "Not me?" Lydia's curiosity seems to get the best of her, raising an eyebrow.

  Stiles waves a hand. "You're an emissary; it makes sense."

  "But I felt it from the bond."

  "Miss Martin is correct. She did not feel it because of the Nemeton, rather, because of you, Mr. Stilinski."

  "Excuse me?"

  Deaton holds up a placating hand. "What I mean is that, as your emissary, Miss Martin will feel any magical changes from within the members of her pack. What she felt was because you felt it as well."

  "Why didn't she feel it through these... ley-thingies?"

  "Her magic is of a newer... variety. While I draw my magic from the earth, as a druid, Miss Martin draws her magic from her pack. She feeds and relies on the health of her pack, so she is not directly linked to the Nemeton as one such as myself is."

  Stiles is quiet, so quiet that the pack turns to him. But he hasn't fallen asleep like Danny thought, rather just looks thoughtful.

  "Stiles?" Derek prompts.

  "I felt it— a little. Before the whole seizure-thing."

  Deaton frowns. "What did you feel?"

  "When I woke up this morning. I thought it was because Lydia was back, but it's still here." He rubs his chest absentmindedly. Deaton leans forward, and Derek moving closer a step with a hand reached out to Stiles, but seems to think better of something, and moves back.

  "What is still there?"

  "I don't know, kind of like the bond? But separate."

  Danny is growling without thinking about it, the pack just as inclined to be on edge about Stiles being connected to something else.

  "Interesting..."

  "Allen, I am really not in the mood for your cryptic bullshit. What the hell is going on."

  Deaton rubs at his faint stubble thoughtfully, as if Lydia hadn't spoken. "It is quite interesting that Mr. Stilinski seems to have felt it so strongly. Even an old friend of mine, a very powerful druid, didn't seem to—"

  "You don't know, do you," Stiles sighs and slumps, pulling his feet up onto the couch. Derek puts a hand on his shoulder from over the back of the couch, and Danny feels their human relax even more.

  Derek turns a short glare to Deaton. "Thank you, Allen."

  It's a clear dismissal, one Deaton is smart enough to take, rising to his feet. "I'll speak with some other covens; I'll be in contact if they have anything."

  The pack is silent, and Deaton has the gall to stand there until it's awkward. But then he leaves, and the pack doesn't relax until they hear his car drive away.

  Derek lets out a breath and releases Stiles' shoulder as Lydia gets to her feet, kicking at Jackson's feet so he follows her. The house is soon filled with the smell of pancakes once again, though Stiles doesn't seem like he has it in him to care, and Danny tightens his arm around him.

  Erica and Boyd soon join Lydia in the kitchen, Erica rubbing Stiles' head on her way. Surprisingly, Isaac gets up as well, muttering something about setting the table, though Danny has already done that. He keeps his mouth shut, though, when Derek sits on Stiles' unoccupied side, and wisely so, because Stiles shifts until he's wrapped around the two of them like a koala.

  "Y'know," Stiles mutters sleepily. "Vet-man didn't answer why you felt it too."

  Danny is man enough to admit he didn't dare look at Derek's expression.

//~//

  "Mom, please—"

  "No, Scott. We've been over this."

  Scott screeches in frustration as his mom leaves the house for work, closing the door behind her with an air of finality. Which leaves him to his own devices in an empty house. Again.

  He's been on lockdown since the whole "Incident", as he's calling it in his head. As soon as John had dropped him off at home after the Windigo attack, Melissa had grilled him relentlessly, and as soon as he'd mentioned Stiles, she'd called the school and released him from class for the next two weeks. Two. Weeks.

  Scott's going stir-crazy, and John needs to know Stiles is alive but his mom doesn't even believe him, says it was the shock, the fucking PTSD he's sure to get from watching something like that. Of course, John hadn't exactly listened when Scott claimed it was the Hale pack either, but hey, this was _Stiles_. Even though they'd had a funeral (without a body, of course), Scott knows John is holding out for a sign, even if he doesn't realize it. Scott has been _trying_  to give him that sign, but his mom had taken both his laptop and his cellphone.

  She'd even disconnected the house phone.

  And Scott doesn't like to disobey his mom, really, really doesn't, but John has the right to know. And besides, she won't be home for another six hours, at the very least, and the station isn't all that far from his house. He can even stop by under the pretense of lunch.

  Scott whispers an apology to Stiles when he stops at Arby's on his way over.

  Like he'd thought, John is taking his lunch break in his office, pouring over a case file marked in red sharpie. Five years ago, Scott would have been terrified to walk into the room on his own without Stiles leading him, but when you lose the most important person in your life, you tend to bond with the people who've gone through the same thing. Melissa had had to pick up the pieces from both Scott and John, the Sheriff living with them for the first year; they still spend most of their free time at each other's homes.

  So it isn't really that hard for Scott to rap his knuckles on the doorjamb with a smile. John takes a moment, but he looks up, brightening when Scott holds out the Arby's bag.

  "Ah, Mr. McCall. You really shouldn't spoil your elders like this."

  Scott grins and drops the bag onto the open case file, before flopping into one of the chairs in front of the desk. "It's the least I could do; you don't eat lunch anyway. I doubt this is going to fuck your cholesterol too much."

  John makes a pleased noise as he unwraps his barbecue pork sandwich. "Aren't you supposed to be on lockdown?"

  "What my mom doesn't know won't hurt her."

  "Cheeky shit," John mutters around his first bite of fried heart attack. Scott just smiles, stealing a fry that had landed on the desktop. Shoving it in his mouth, Scott realizes he has no idea how he's going to tell John he saw Stiles; how does someone even attempt that?

  Chewing thoughtfully, it takes him a moment to realize John is watching him knowingly. "What's on your mind, son?"

  Scott swallows, the nerves he'd been ignoring suddenly settling in quite quickly. "Uhm, you know the other day? With the Windigos?"

  John grimaces. "Scott, I'm really not good at... emotional... things."

  "I know, just hear me out?"

  "If this is about the Hale pack, no one is even sure they're still arou—"

  "Jackson and Danny are wolves."

  Scott isn't sure if it's a good thing that that's what caught his attention. "Jackson Whittemore? I thought he was living in LA."

  "So did I, but he was at the graveyard. Danny too."

  "Scott, I'm really not sure if what you saw that night can exactly be called accurate. Sometimes we... project people we know into situations we can't deal with."

  Scott groans and slouches. "I know that. But if you ever trust me on something, please trust that I'm sure on this? There were six wolves, and I don't know who the others were, but Jackson and Danny were definitely two of them."

  John sighs and sets aside his lunch, running a hand through his thinning hair. "And how do you know it was the Hale pack?"

  "Well, it's the only one that makes sense, isn't it? We don't have any other local packs. Wouldn't one have moved in if there were no more Hales left?"

  "I suppose... But, son, why would they have been there? We didn't ask them for their help, didn't know we would need it, and according to the agreement, they're not required to do anything unless we ask."

  "Maybe they like to help out anyway?" Scott is scrambling at straws, he knows, but he needs John to know about Stiles. Baby steps.

  "Okay, I'll humor you. If it is the Hale pack, regardless of if Danny and Jackson are wolves, how does it change the situation? Megan is dead, the Windigos are taken care of, there aren't any loose ends. Are you saying we should send them a fruitbasket as thanks?"

  Scott winces. Sometimes, just every now and then, someone'll say something that is just so _Stiles_  it almost hurts to think about; John is usually the one to drop sarcastic comments, so it's easy to see where Stiles had gotten it.

  "No, but aren't you required as a police officer to investigate all aspects of a case?"

  "Scott, I'm not a police officer. And while you are correct otherwise, I have no reason to investigate other than a compromised eyewitness."

  Scott pulls out the puppy eyes. He rarely uses them anymore, but goddamnit if he's going to let John keep believing he has to live alone the rest of his life. "You could say you got an anonymous tip?"

  John can stand the puppy eyes for all of thirty seconds, before he sighs and slouches back, picking up his sandwich. "We'll go as soon as you call your mom."

  Wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hate this chapter, but I swear if I don't get it up, I'll be correcting it into infinity. So, my apologies. If I do a rework, this chapter will definitely be rewritten.
> 
> Sorry it's so long; chapters won't be this long again, I just needed to get to Scott because I've kind of left that part of the story hanging. T^T Sorry.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	11. Chapter 11 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _August 20th, 2011_
> 
> Stiles tries not to be too disturbed that the wolves are cleaning up all the bodies while in the nude, as if this were more than normal. Of course, it isn't too hard, considering he's a little bit giddy from adrenaline, blood-loss, and the wallet he's riffling through; he needs a new hoodie, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers to the void* I am a piece of shit.
> 
> No, but really. I've had this written for the past two weeks, minus the battle scene, because I could not for the life of me figure out how to write it. And I'm still pissed at it so I sincerely hope those of you that have been patient up to this point will mostly ignore it? Maybe just take it for the intention? I don't know.
> 
> Seriously, thank you to everyone that's been reading this far, and have put up with my weird timing. And an especially big thank you to those that have commented; you guys seriously brighten my day.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom

"That's stupid. They're stupid. You're stupid."

  "Very eloquent, Stiles," Derek sighs from the table, marking the map laid out on the kitchen table with a green pen.

  "But I don't get it? Like, you guys are alright. Almost everyone in town is alright. Police are given training. What's the point?"

  Isaac looks up from the book Derek has assigned him to, watching Stiles use a massive, and he means _massive_  needle on something large and brown in his lap. None of the pack has asked what exactly it is, neither do they seem to care, but Isaac can practically feel himself vibrating with curiosity. Stiles has been working on it for hours, after running through the house with a tape measure and one of Derek's shirts, and that enough should raise concern from the other betas, at the very least. Isaac feels like a loner in his interest.

  "There's always going to be those that want to capitalize on shit like that."

  "What, they get _paid_?" Stiles swears softly under his breath when he pokes himself with the needle, licking the blood from his thumb. "That's stupid. Like, so stupid it's competing with you not having rebuilt your fucking house."

  The pack groans a whole, because this is not a new conversation. In the short time Stiles has been camping out with them, he's brought up their dilapidated living conditions at every possible opportunity. He's quite good at making opportunities for it too.

  "So why are they after you? Aren't you guys, like, hella peaceful?"

  Isaac and Erica exchange quick looks. "Well, Derek wasn't technically supposed to turn us."

  "Why not? Didn't you guys ask for it?" Stiles raises his head for a split second to look at them, but quickly returns to his work. Derek caps the green pen and pulls out a purple one, marking the areas on the map where they can head off the hunters without interference from the townsfolk.

  "Hunters are dirty, Stiles.” Erica pipes up, checking something off a list. “They fight dirty. They're those that don't agree with the whole 'coexisting' deal going on. Those that would rather just kill anything that could pose potential harm than weed out those that are _actually_  causing harm. If we don't stop them, they could go after other supes in town."

  "Erica is right. It isn't strictly our duty, without the town asking, but—"

  "I think it's sweet." Isaac is the only one paying attention enough to catch Stiles' grin. "You guys helping out all the time. Like town bodyguards, or something."

  Derek sighs through his nose and switches back to the green pen. "We're not bodyguards, Stiles."

  "Yeah, but cool thought, though, huh? Hale pack to the rescue. Like you guys did with me."

  "No offense, but we were only going to keep you until you healed," Boyd grunts, scratching his nose with the tip of his pen.

  Stiles mocks hurt, a hand to his chest. "I'm wounded, Boyd."

  "You did kind of force yourself on us, batman."

  "I did no such thing!"

  Isaac swears he hears Derek give a snort of amusement, but when he looks, his face is as stony as ever. It's no secret that Derek's mellowed out a little bit since Stiles "forced himself on them", but outwardly showing it is still rare; it makes Isaac's wolf rumble happily, to see its alpha happy.

  Stiles seems to have noticed the snort as well, looking quite pleased with himself as he returns to his project, grabbing a spool of leather thread that he'd stolen from Boyd's "For all Supernatural Purposes" crate that he has hidden in his closet. Isaac can't for the life of him figure out what Stiles could possibly be working on.

  "So you've run into hunters before, then?"

  "Several times. I myself more than the betas." With that, the betas tense, because if Stiles pushes, he's heading into dangerous territory; they themselves only know the barebones of the Hale fire tragedy, mostly what they knew from their time in the town.

  "You mean the hunters and the fire? The Argents, right?" Erica coughs loudly in warning; Stiles doesn't seem to notice. "Why were they after your family?"

  "Like Erica said: hunters are dirty. The Hales were a large family, and living together made it easy to get them all in the same place. 'Line the place in Mountain Ash, and it's the perfect crime."

  "Except you got out."

  To their surprise, Derek shrugs easily, choosing a bright yellow pen next. "My sister and I weren't even in the house at the time. We were getting groceries, something the Argents hadn't planned for."

  Stiles hmms quietly, running his fingers over whatever he has in his lap. Isaac's leg bounces, itching to just ask, but no one else seems to care, and he doesn't want to be the puppy all the time. "Did you ever catch them?"

  "The police caught most of them. Kate... is still out there."

  Stiles is quiet for a moment, then jerks his head up. "Wait, are these the same Argents that are currently _in Beacon Hills Office_." Derek meets his eye for a moment, smiling shortly.

  "The very same."

  "But didn't they...?"

  "Kate was working on her own. With several hunters that weren't even Argents; the Argents still in Beacon Hills are perfectly respectable, though I probably wouldn't trust them with my, or any of your, lives."

  Wrinkling his nose, Stiles leans back against the wall behind him. The betas have stopped working as well, Boyd watching Derek for any sign that he's going to his "dark place", but he just lets his gaze flick over Stiles for a moment, before once again focusing on the map. They fall into a comfortable silence, not marred by any questions or pressing concerns, which, judging by the look Erica is pointedly sharing with him, they're all thoroughly confused about. Whenever they brought up the Argents, Derek would shut down, only give the smallest details.

  But Stiles and silence aren't usually very good friends, so when the silence stretches to minutes, then nearly an hour, Isaac starts fidgeting. He realizes he's read the same sentence almost a dozen times, and still has no idea what it's saying; he's not use to the quiet anymore, not since Stiles had stopped being afraid of them and started talking their ears off instead.

  Of course, even in that short time, the betas at least have grown too use to his presence; they don't even notice him approaching the table until Stiles drops... whatever he had been working on onto the table with a loud crash. Isaac nearly topples out of his seat, and Erica's pen goes flying across the table to hit Boyd in the face, which, wow, fucking hilarious. Stiles seems to think as much, crossing his arms proudly over his chest while Derek recovers enough to look at the brown, misshapen mass currently in the middle of his work.

  "Stiles," he says slowly, "what is that."

  "A saddle."

  "We can't afford a horse, Stiles."

  "Ah, so snarky. This isn't for a horse, silly wolfy. It's for you."

Isaac doesn’t think he and Erica can be blamed for losing it, so the glare Derek shoots at them hotly is completely unwarranted; even Boyd has cracked a grin. Stiles just smiles along with them, though Isaac isn't sure if it's because of the rise he got out of them, or if he's actually looking forward to explaining this to Derek.

  "Why," Derek grits out, as expected, and Isaac tries to push down his snorts, but really to no avail.

  "Because I am a slow weak human that can't keep up with your big bad paws. This way, I'll actually make it to the scene before you guys finish everything interesting." Erica promptly shuts up, jaw tight, and Isaac suddenly doesn't feel all that giddy about Stiles' saddle. He _is_  a weak human, easily bruised and breakable; he really can't expect to actually... come with them? "I know, I know," he tries to placate at their exchanged expressions, "you guys aren't bodyguards, but you stick your noses in enough shit that you should know you'll end up doing it again; this way I can help."

  "You're not fighting with us, Stiles." Isaac nods eagerly in agreement.

  "Look, guys, I can help—"

  "Too big of a risk. Especially against hunters; they won't stop because you're human."

  "Derek, can you just please—"

  "No, Stiles."

  Stiles groans in frustration, spins around on his heel and points to one of the candles set out on the burnt mantle. He snaps his fingers, and the candle bursts into life, the wick igniting instantly. Derek goes tense, impossibly tense.

  "How—" Erica starts, but Stiles cuts her off.

  "I found your old books," he says to Derek. "The ones that survived the fire. I'm a spark, Derek. I _can_  help."

  Lighting candles won't do too much in a fight, Stiles has to know that. And as excited as Erica is about this revelation, not even she looks convinced that they should risk bringing Stiles into a fight.

  "No, Stiles."

  Stiles turns on Derek with a growl that could certainly rival their own. He grabs the saddle from the table and marches to the stairs, deliberately not stomping because he knows that's exactly what they'd expect him to do.

  He does slam his bedroom door.

 

  It's unsettling as a pack not to hear from Stiles for the rest of the afternoon. It puts them all on edge that he stays locked up in his room brooding and probably thinking nasty things about them all.

  Derek is worried he's thinking that they don't trust him, or think him weak. Because, yes, this is about protecting a fragile human such as he, but that doesn't mean Stiles is _weak_... per say. Just that he doesn't need to throw himself in unnecessary danger. Derek doesn't want to be responsible for further injury, even if Stiles isn't pack; he's still under Derek's protection, and they'd just got Stiles to working condition again. He's not eager to mess that work up.

  His betas are quiet, too quiet, but they seem to agree with their alpha, so Derek tries to relax, trying to finish mapping out their play and trying to ignore the smell of leather that won't leave the table. And, really, while Derek is flattered, in a weird sense of the word, a saddle? For a wolf? A wolf isn't some pack animal that carts around humans; though, technically, an alpha would be big enough to support someone as slight as Stiles.

  He shakes that thought away; Stiles is too breakable, not fragile, _breakable_  to be so near to hunters. Derek has enough experience getting those close to him hurt around the bastards, he doesn't need someone who's in even more danger just by being there.

  When dinner rolls around, Stiles is still refusing to come out of his room, and if he couldn't hear Stiles' heartbeat, Derek would be concerned he'd snuck out. But the steady, if a bit erratic, _thump thump bathump_  can be heard even in the hardly-usable kitchen. Just the sound of it calms Derek some, for reasons he really can't bring himself to get too far into right now, on the eve of battle. He can worry about it later, after they've dealt with these hunters that could very well be allies of Kate.

  After they eat, Derek sends Isaac out on patrol. Just skirt the Hale property to make sure the Hunters weren't planning any funny business while it's still light out; like the wolves, they hunt in the dark, but one can never be too careful with three— no, four teens under his wing. Besides, Kate attacked his home in the middle of the day, so really, there's no way for them to know when they could be attacked.

  With everything planned out, all they can do is wait until nightfall, so Derek takes to pacing. Pacing all over the ground floor of the house, which includes the bottom of the stairs. No, despite the looks Erica keeps giving him, he is _not_  sticking close to the stairs so Stiles' heartbeat is louder. He just happens to keep walking by it, because that's where the most open space is. Erica must be learning from him, though, because holy shit those judgy eyebrows.

  It only causes Derek to pause a little bit when he realizes how much Stiles has rubbed off on him.

  It's sunset when Derek hears Isaac's howl of warning, far off down the driveway. Erica and Boyd leap to their feet when Isaac bursts into the house, panting as if he had run the whole way from Beacon Hills proper. Perhaps he had; Isaac wasn't very good at listening to instructions.

  "Hunters. Three miles out. Coming this way."

  With a grim nod, Derek yanks off his coat and tosses it over the back of the couch. "We're going full shift. Your healing's going to be slowed a little, but we need all the power we've got." If he gets a keen sense of happiness when his betas start throwing off their clothes like they're about to start an orgy, shifting easily into their respective wolves, Derek keeps it to himself. His wolf chirrs when Isaac rubs along his side before taking off out through the open door after Erica and Boyd.

  Derek is about to shift to follow when he sees Stiles halfway down the steps and looking to him with wide eyes. He doesn't even know how long the human has been standing there, how much he heard, but it doesn't really matter. They're leaving and Stiles is not.

  "Derek," Stiles says, like a plea, like his world will shatter if they left him behind.

//~//

  Harvey had been sure they’d win, when they took this job from Kate. She’d assured them that even if Hale prepared his betas, they were weak, and young; Hale would be the only real threat. And when the three Hale betas ambushed their stake-out, no alpha in sight, Harvey had only been more confident in the eight-member troupe he’d brought.

  They hadn’t anticipated the boy that comes crashing into the fight astride Hale’s back, decked in red and wielding a spiked baseball bat.

The small tan wolf had been cornered, as far as Harvey could tell, by his righthand man, Louie, across the camp. And, still as far as he can tell, Louie is still over there, but most of his head is landing at Harvey’s feet with a sickening spulching sound.

  The kid lets out a whoop of triumph, Hale circling around his beta and Louie’s body before coming to a stop between the tan wolf and Harvey, lips pulled back in a snarl. Kate hadn’t been kidding when said Hale was _huge_ , the boy in no danger of his feet dragging on the ground.

  “Derek, did you _see_  that?!” he whoops. Red Riding Hoodie can’t even be sixteen yet, can’t possibly be... battle-trained, but he flicks the blood from his bat and he’s grinning like a loon, knocking back his hood. And he must have some serious muscle packed under those baggy clothes, to be able to take off a man’s head. Or magical power, at least, enough that it can bleed into his body.

He seems to see Harvey for the first time, and his curiosity contrasts Hale’s ferocious anger, like Harvey wasn’t what the kid was expecting.

  The battle has frozen, and even the hunters can feel the change in the atmosphere, settling like frost over their skin. Kate hadn’t mentioned the kid. Kate had said if Hale showed up at all, it would only take a few of them to eliminate the threat. Kate had said a lot of things, and Harvey is pretty sure they’re not getting paid nearly enough for this, not with part of Louie’s brain sticking to the top of his shoe.

  “Oh, uh, hi.” Harvey jerks his attention back to the kid, still seated on Hale’s back even as his alpha growls lowly. “I’m kinda new to all of this, but apparently we’re supposed to ask you to leave...? Mostly unharmed?” He glances to Louie’s body and at least has the decency to look a little bit queasy. “Of course, you were the one in our territory, out to kill us, so...”

  “If you think you can scare us into leaving—”

  “Hey, you tried to take out Isaac,” the kid interrupts, eyes suddenly dangerous. “That wasn’t your first mistake, but really, there’s not much else you could have done worse.”

  The kid’s young, wet around the ears. Harvey knows this, would be able to use it in nearly every other situation, but with the kid on Hale’s back, protected by him, his men won’t be able to get him alone. They’re a broken pack at best, but there’s a desperation to something seconds from falling apart, and Hale seems to have harnessed that. His betas are on their feet again, snarling, and despite their tails hanging low, they look eager to start snapping at them again.

  Harvey deeply regrets leaving their resident archer behind, because Matthew, bless his callow soul, can’t shoot straight to save his life. And Matthew is the one that somehow ends up with their best crossbow, aimed right at Red Riding Hoodie. Harvey doesn’t think he’s ever hit his mark, so it surprises exactly no one that the arrow goes for the kid’s head instead of his chest.

  Compared to the bulk of a wolf like Hale, the kid already seems small, but as he sprawls to the ground in a short spray of blood, he hardly seems more than a child.

  Like most people, Harvey has never bought into the whole “the world slows down” in big moments. He’s been in plenty of fights to know it’s little more than hollywood bullshit, but as the kid jerks from Hale’s back the world... seems to freeze, tilt on its axis in a blur of red and silence. And Harvey still doesn’t quite believe in it, this "slow motion" shenanigan, but it seems hours before the kid finally reaches the ground, slumped in the decaying leaves.

What people don't talk about is when time speeds back up, when it suddenly hits you in the chest the same moment a pack of pissed off werewolves turns in sync to face you. People don't talk about the growls, the sudden electricity in the air, or the pesky thought that you should have brought more back up. A lot more backup.

A short laugh comes from the huddle of a boy on the ground, devoid of any mirth or gaiety. He starts to push himself up to his feet, the blonde wolf coming up behind him so the kid can lean on him, standing to his full height. He looks straight to Harvey, ignoring the shaking bow that is still aimed in his direction to scowl with a small pout to his lips. Blood runs thickly down the side of his head, sealing his eye shut from the split above his eyebrow. Harvey, if this had not been a head wound, would be inclined to think he'd bleed out.

But it is a head wound, and the kid looks _pissed_. "I promised Derek I wouldn't get blood anywhere. You owe me a new sweatshirt."

And like a tightly wound spring, held back until the last moment, the pack lunges.

 //~//

   Stiles tries not to be too disturbed that the wolves are cleaning up all the bodies while in the nude, as if this were more than normal. Of course, it isn't too hard, considering he's a little bit giddy from adrenaline, blood-loss, and the wallet he's riffling through; he needs a new hoodie, after all.

  "You said we."

  Stiles looks up to Derek from his perch on a nearby boulder, his alpha standing over him, not even trying to cover up; Stiles does his best not to redden. "What?"

  "When you were talking about the pack. You said 'we'."

  "Aren't we a 'we'?"

  Isaac comes up behind him and throws an arm around his shoulders, pulling him awkwardly against his chest. "Yeah, Stiles. We're a 'we'."

  Stiles grins.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Really? Ten years? You would have been eight, Stiles.”  
> “Five, actually. I got over you years ago.” He rolls over to grin tiredly up at her. “First day of preschool, though.” He whistles. “Damn. Lydia Martin walks in, wearing a big floppy hat and a polka dot dress, and Stiles Stilinski is never the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back to my normal updating schedule this week, sorry about the delays and all. Hey, at least this one is on time?  
> Anyway, I was having some fortmatting issues with this chapter, so I hope I got everything and what I didn't isn't noticeable ^-^' 
> 
> I AM SO SORRY FOR BUTCHERING LYDIA. I HAVE NOT FIGURED OUT P MUCH ANYBODY'S CHARACTERIZATIONS AND LYDIA SEEMS TO BE EVEN WORSE FOR WHICH I AM ACTUALLY SO SORRY. Please ignore T*T
> 
> Thank you guys so much for sticking with this story this long; I don't understand, exactly, but please know it means the absolute world. TW is a huge fandom, and getting ten views on this was surprising, so that even just a few of you enjoy reading this I can't even articulate. Just, thank you. 
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom

  “Stiles, love, you need a shower.”

  “I don’ wanna,” Stiles groans.

  “Stiles, you smell disgusting.” Lydia tugs gently on the longer hairs near his forehead, but makes no move to push him off her lap. She glances up to Derek, who has paused in his effort to pick up the remaining breakfast dishes from the coffeetable. He’s watching Stiles with a frown that Lydia can only describe as upset, and he doesn’t say anything when he notices Lydia watching him.

  “Later. Please? I want to sleep.”

  “You’ve been napping for hours.”

  “Lydia, let him sleep,” Erica says quietly from over the back of the couch, looking down at their humans. “He’ll be tired for a while.”

  “See? Listen to the expert.” Stiles shifts enough to blow Erica a kiss, before flopping back down onto Lydia’s ruffly skirt.

  Lydia sighs and leans her chin into her hand, lounging against the arm of the chair and preparing to stay there a while yet. “You never blew kisses at me,” she muses, conceding.

  “I didn’t have a massive crush on her for ten years.”

  “Really? Ten years? You would have been eight, Stiles.”

  “Five, actually. I got over you years ago.” He rolls over to grin tiredly up at her. “First day of preschool, though.” He whistles. “Damn. Lydia Martin walks in, wearing a big floppy hat and a polka dot dress, and Stiles Stilinski is never the same.”

  Lydia doubts that’s what she actually wore; she wouldn’t be caught dead in a polka dot dress now. Stiles’ memory must be faulty. “We went to preschool together?”

  “You cut me deep, Lyds.”

  Erica snorts and walks back to the kitchen to tackle the plates Derek finally put on the counter. “Stiles and I went to the same nursery,” she pipes up, dunking a plate into the sudsy water.

  Lydia crinkles her nose, still not quite comfortable with the idea that she had been in the same class as Stiles every year, and had not noticed. Stiles isn’t exactly someone who’s easy to forget, and he’s _pack_. His bond to her seems to fucking _glow_ , though whether it’s because they’re the only humans, or if his spark is the cause, she’s never been sure.

  The point is, Lydia doesn’t quite understand how she had ignored one of the most important people in her life for years. It leaves a sour taste in her mouth that Erica remembers everything about him, and truthfully, she herself barely remembers Jackson even mentioning him.

  “Hey. No frowny-faces.”

  Lydia blinks as Stiles pokes a finger between her brow and pushes away the wrinkles. She looks down at him and offers a small smile, before pushing her brows back together. “I won’t stop frowning until you shower; you smell like ass.”

  “Wow, that’s mature, Lyds,” he grumbles, but pushes himself up into a sitting position, rubbing a hand over his face. Lydia almost feels bad, trying her best to ignore the bags under his eyes, and the gaunt look to his cheeks. “I’m sleeping after I’m done, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  He swings up to his feet after a quick press of lips to Lydia’s cheek, smiling cheekily and trotting off for the staircase. Danny comes up behind the couch and leans his arms onto the back of it, watching Stiles over Lydia’s shoulder.

  “How do you do that? Get him to do things without threatening pain of death?”

  Lydia smirks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Whatever. I’m just glad you’re back.” He leans over to kiss behind her jaw, dodging her rolling eyes to head back to the kitchen.

  Lydia sits there for another few moments, watching where Stiles has disappeared upstairs until she hears the shower start. She sighs shortly, a quick breath puffed from her nose, then nimbly rises to her feet. Derek has moved on to spread books and several maps over the table, bent over an especially rustic-looking one, Isaac sitting in a chair close enough to lean his head into Derek’s side; their alpha doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice.

  “So, Derek,” Lydia starts, moving to sit on Derek’s other side, the neighboring chair quickly becoming occupied by Jackson. “Where exactly _is_  the Nemeton?”

  He hums thoughtfully before answering, putting a scrap of paper into an old journal to mark a page. “Miles into the Preserve. I don’t know the exact location, but it’s barely on Hale property.”

  “So pretty far out.”

  He nods. “It’ll be quite a hike out there, so Stiles needs to be completely rested before we head out.”

  Boyd and Danny migrate to join them around the table, Jackson making quick work of tugging Danny to sit on his lap instead. Erica takes her seat next to Boyd, pulling one of the books across to her and ignoring the short glare she gets from Derek. “That might be a while. Absence seizures are bad enough; Stiles is going to be wiped.”

  With a growl under his breath, Derek marks something on one of the maps, then sticks the pencil behind his ear. “We need to check the Nemeton as soon as possible.”

  “Does Stiles really have to be there?” Lydia leans into her hand, her free one settled on Danny’s knee. Derek looks up at her as if, out of anything she could have possibly said, he hadn’t expected that.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stiles isn’t exactly our emissary, Derek. I am. Aside from safety in numbers, there’s really no reason for Stiles to tag along.”

  Derek straightens and rubs the back of his neck, shoulders tense like he’s uncomfortable, though, why, Lydia doesn’t want to read into.

  “Stiles won’t like being left behind,” Danny says from her right.

  Erica adds, “And we can’t leave him by himself.”

  “Is there any reason for all of us to go in the first place? Stiles won’t be able to argue if only a few of us are going.”

  “I don’t like leaving anybody behind, Lydia.”

  “Too bad, Derek. Stiles needs to rest, we need to see the Nemeton, and someone needs to be watching Stiles. Really, only you and I need to go.” Lydia has barely finished before Isaac and Boyd have started growling, only quieting at Derek’s raised hand.

  “I won’t pretend to like this,” he says slowly, looking right to Lydia. “but Lydia is right. Isaac, Danny, you stay here with Stiles, the rest of us will check on the Nemeton. Hopefully we’ll make it back before Stiles is even awake, so he can’t kick up a fuss—”

  The wolves perk up and look to the front of the house. Lydia doesn’t know why until she too can hear tires skidding on gravel, far up the driveway. Isaac rises to his feet, moving to the other side of Derek with a cock to his head.

  “Is it Deaton?” Lydia asks, getting up as well.

  Isaac answers immediately, having the best ears, “No, it’s a different car.”

  Derek moves over to the window in three long strides, pulling aside the blinds carefully. Lydia makes to join him, but Stiles comes down the steps in time to cause her pause, smelling of steam and soap with a towel draped over his head. “What’s got the puppies all worked up?” he asks teasingly.

  “Stiles,” Derek says without looking back from the window.

  “Alright, alright, I’ll lay off the dog jokes, no need to get snappy.”

  “There’s a car,” Isaac offers. Stiles raises an eyebrow, joining Derek at the window. Stiles goes still, utterly and completely frozen, and Lydia starts to move to stand beside Derek, but Stiles bolts away from the window before she can even take a step, nearly tripping over the coffeetable in his attempt to make it to the front door.

  Her pack’s expressions offer no explanation, Lydia pursing her lips into a line. She follows Stiles to the door, walking onto the porch just in time to see Stiles tackle the Sheriff.

  The Sheriff’s cruiser is pulled up outside the house, both doors open. Scott is awkwardly standing on the passenger side, watching as the Stilinskis sink the ground in a hug that looks like it hurts, but neither seem to care. Lydia stands frozen a step outside the front door, more confused than anything about the scene unfolded before her. She can hear Stiles crying, can hear the whispers of “I missed you”, and “I thought you were gone”, and Lydia really doesn’t understand.

  She knew Stiles hadn’t been speaking to his dad; it was hard not to notice Stiles cringing whenever his past life was even mentioned. Asking the old pack about it was useless, all wanting to respect Stiles’ wish to not acknowledge his dad, but Lydia had assumed a fight, maybe some kind of spell gone wrong.

  But looking at them, Lydia starts to wonder if they both thought the other dead.

  She feels her pack join her on the porch, all taking it in with as much confusion as she. Isaac pushes past her in attempt to follow Stiles down the front steps, but Derek quickly puts a hand on his shoulder, and he only makes it to the first stair. Scott looks up to see them, going a little green to the cheeks when he makes eye contact with Lydia, but pale again when he sees Derek; in fact, he might look a little scared.

  Stiles finally pulls away from the Sheriff, and though Lydia can’t see his face, she’s sure it’s just as tear-stained and grinning as John’s. Though some of John’s smile falters when he looks over Stiles’ shoulder and sees the pack in various stages of chasing after his son, eyes glancing to each tense member before he looks back to Stiles.

  “So. Hale pack.”

  Stiles winces, helping his dad to his feet. “Yeah. You know me: always getting into trouble.”

  “Does that mean you’re...?” John has a hand on Stiles’ upper arm, like if he lets go, Stiles will disappear again.

  “Oh god, no. Still human.” Stiles grins and brushes off John’s uniform.

  “And they’re all...?”

  “Wolves, yeah. Oh, not Lydia; she’s human too. We think.” He turns to grin and wave at her, reminding the Sheriff that they can all hear them.

  John clears his throat and waves awkwardly, forcing a small smile. Lydia can see the slight betrayal from here, the cloud to John’s eyes that accuses them of stealing his son. He turns back to Stiles after a moment of looking at each of them, making his distaste known. “I had the house rebuilt; do you think you’ll... be coming home?”

  Lydia’s heart leaps into her mouth, feels the sudden, palpable tension that bolts through the pack. Stiles has to be able to feel it too: it nearly pains Lydia. The pack had been concerned enough about Stiles leaving them for Scott; how would they be able to tell Stiles he can’t leave with his dad?

  But Stiles just smiles without hesitation, and John’s shoulders slump in a resigned sort of way. He smiles after a moment, too, and runs a hand over Stiles’ buzzcut.

  “I’ll come visit tomorrow, dad. But this is kinda my home now? And, honestly,” he drops his voice to a whisper, as if they wouldn’t be able to hear them. “they’d be lost without me.”

  “You seem happy here.”

  “I am, dad. And, god, you have the absolute _worst_  timing, ‘cause I want nothing more than to hear everything about you, and where you’re living, and _everything_ , but there’s this... thing.”

  “Should I be concerned.”

  “Psh, no.”

  “Does it concern the town?”

  “Uh...”

  “Stiles,” he sighs, smoothing a hand over Stiles’ hair again. “Just tell Hale that if something big is going down, he should alert the Argents.” Stiles unconsciously rubs the scars above his brow, a movement missed by none. John’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t mention it.

  “Will do.”

  John sighs again, pulling Stiles into another hug, though without the waterworks this time. “I missed you, kid.”

  “I missed you too, dad.”

  Scott’s face is split with a grin that looks like it borders on painful, closing the car door and quickly making his way around the hood to tackle Stiles into a hug of his own. Stiles makes a surprised, but pleased noise, John stepping back to let his boys have their moment.

  Isaac lets out a soft growl at the exchange, but Derek just tightens his grip on his beta’s shoulder, glancing a look to Lydia. She nods once to support him. That seems to be what he needed, setting his shoulders straighter and turning back to the cruiser.

  John is watching them closely, not quite frowning, but nearly there. He looks at Derek the longest, as if trying to equate the teen he’d consoled after the fire with this man that had been hiding his son for the better part of four years. After a moment, he seems to mentally shrug.

  Lydia takes that as her cue, and moves past Isaac to walk to the cruiser. Stiles and Scott are hitting it off like they’d never been separated (Lydia does remember seeing them in the halls of Beacon Hills High on numerous occasions), but Stiles immediately quiets when Lydia places a hand at his elbow.

  “As touching as this is, Stiles, you should get back inside. McCall, Sheriff.” She nods to the two of them. John smiles thinly, hugging Stiles once more, and handing him one of his business cards.

  “I expect daily updates if you don’t make it down to see me in person.” Stiles mock solutes.

  Scott looks like he’s been kicked, but doesn’t do anything when Lydia glares at him warningly. They could catch up later; the pack doesn’t have time for that right now.

  John seems to pick up on that, putting a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “C’mon, son. Melissa wasn’t thrilled you were coming out here; the least we can do is get you back in time for dinner.”

  Scott’s face deflates. “Right. Text me?”

  Stiles smiles and ruffles his hair. “‘Course, you idiot. You guys should leave before Lydia starts breathing fire.”

  “I thought you said she was human?”

  “I said we think she’s human. I wouldn’t risk it.”

  Lydia makes a mental note to put hot sauce in his coffee.


	13. Chapter 13 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _February 19th, 2011_
> 
> He takes Erica's spot, kneeling in front of Stiles and settling his hands on his shoulders. Derek sniffs the air shortly, like he hadn't already smelled Stiles' panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! Spring Break started and I've been sick, and my Zen Writer crashed again; I lost about five thousand words so I'm trying to make that up still. However, I think I've got what I want from the plot down, and have outlines for up to chapter 27, so I should be good for a while. I missed two weeks, it looks like, so here's the first chapter, and the next will be up tomorrow. Chapter 15 will be up Sunday to be on time, granted I have time to finish it before I go to my grandparents'. I'll do my best!
> 
> Also, sorry about the length; a lot of my Δ chapters will be kinda short, since they're just snippets.

  Stiles would like to state for the record that it had not been his intention to spend any amount of time sitting on the Hale porch while it snows buckets. Sitting down hadn't even been on his list of To Do's.

  His plans had mostly been sneaking out of the house to walk back to Beacon Hills. It's a Saturday, Scott wouldn't be at school; he had been _hoping_  to get back to the house before the pack got back from their run; they'd gone out early in the morning, before the crack of dawn, and it was the first time they'd left him home alone. Stiles was confident his wounds had healed enough to make the trek. He'd even been excited to go back home.

  The doubts had started as soon as he'd crossed the threshold, the worries that Scott wouldn't care if he came back or not. That everyone would hate him for leaving his dad to burn like that. What if Scott never wanted to see him again, what if Mrs. McCall hated him?

  The panic had soon followed.

  So, really, he's hardly at fault when he ends up sitting on the top step, snow soaking into his pants and charred wood poking splinters through the fabric, with his head between his knees in hopes this nauseous feeling will pass. His chest seizes with every breath, like his ribs won't expand enough, and Stiles doesn't remember how to stop, hasn't _needed_  to remember for years, and he just can't _breathe_. His dad use to talk him down, use to—

  He doesn't hear the footsteps until they start up the stairs, feet making a hollow sound against the weather-bitten wood. Someone says his name, quietly, and puts a hand on the back of his neck, while someone else sits next to him, pressed close against his side. Stiles raises his head a little, and it's Erica kneeling on the step below him, her hair up in a ponytail high on her head. Isaac wriggles next to him until Stiles is tucked safely under an arm, a hand pressed between his shoulderblades.

  Boyd stands not far off, just stands there for a moment, but when he sees Stiles looking, he moves to sit on his other side. He certainly doesn't put an arm around him like Isaac has done, but he still sits close enough to touch. Erica looks up, then quickly makes room for Derek as he follows them up the steps.

  He takes Erica's spot, kneeling in front of Stiles and settling his hands on his shoulders. Derek sniffs the air shortly, like he hadn't already smelled Stiles' panic.

  It seems to confirm it though, as Derek moves his hands up to Stiles' neck instead. Stiles immediately relaxes, sagging forward a little. His breath still comes in pants, though, and he's starting to feel a bit dizzy, Isaac determinedly holding him upright now.

  Derek seems to hesitate a moment, but then he leans close enough to Stiles to press their foreheads together, an action that seems to come purely from Derek's wolf. He takes a deep breath and Stiles automatically copies him, shuddering as the cold hair finally hits his throat.

  This goes on for several minutes before Isaac starts rubbing his back encouragingly, like his dad use to, and that thought is a little too much.

  As soon as he has enough breath to do so, Stiles chokes on a short sob, and the tension breaks. Erica dives back in, and Stiles is suddenly in the middle of a puppy pile, hugged from all sides. Derek steps away, though, and even though Erica fills the warmth of his absence, Stiles misses the hands on his neck.

  Stiles has learned a lot of things since the Hale Pack had taken him in, and one of the biggest had been that Derek doesn't like touching. Aside from necessity, and when the betas initiated pack cuddles, Derek just... didn't have direct contact with them. Stiles, especially, of course; he's not sure if Derek has touched him at all since he carried him in from the forest.

  So this little lapse in routine, the little break in the norm, it makes Stiles realize he's better at weaseling into places he shouldn't than he'd thought he was. It makes it that much harder, an hour later, when Derek goes into the house without them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, some of my stories, I can see why people would maybe want to stick around. But not this one. I literally do not understand why people have read this far, or why people are wanting more, and I just want you guys to know how much it means to me that you leave comments and encouragements and ideas. It seriously means the world. Thank you.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is a little too much... like, exposition in terms of dialogue? I'll be getting to why Jackson was bit in a while, so I didn't want to say too much, but rereading this chappie, I feel like there's too much dialogue and like, it's too much explaining. Ahhh sorry about that.

  "What do you mean I can't go?" Stiles demands, halfway through making a sandwich. Derek open his mouth to defend himself, but Lydia shoots him a look.

  "Isaac and Danny aren't going either."

  "Yeah, 'cause of course I'll need babysitters."

  "Stiles," Lydia snaps. "you're being ridiculous. We don't all need to go anyway; it'd be better for you to get some rest. Weren't you the one vowing to sleep for a week?"

  Stiles sputters. "That didn't mean I wanted to be left behind!" Isaac pats his shoulder, coming up behind him to grab the turkey from Stiles' hand.

  "I'm just as upset as you are, trust me, but this is Lydia we're talking to."

  Stiles quite honestly doesn't think Isaac looks at all upset about this, sending him an incredulous look while Lydia turns her bitch face on him. She shakes her head, a hand on her hip. "Look, it's late." Late enough that the sun should be rising about now, if they could see it through the overcast skies; Stiles doesn't remember sleeping that long. "We'll be back in an hour, and I expect you to be asleep by then. Isaac, Danny, make sure he goes to bed."

  Isaac salutes through a mouthful of lunchmeat, and Danny nods from where Jackson is leaning against him. Lydia ignores Stiles sticking his tongue out at her, just looking satisfied with the wolves' response.

  She says to Derek, "You know the way?" He nods. Lydia turns back to Stiles and points a finger at him. "Bed. Ten minutes."

  Stiles makes a face and shoves a pickle in his mouth. "You're literally the bane of my existence."

  "Good. Now finish and get to bed." She turns on heel, their search party quickly following to avoid any leftover wrath Stiles has about the situation.

//~//

  Not five minutes after the majority of their pack leaves, Stiles is finishing his sandwich when Isaac perks up from the island. He looks to the door, Danny following his line of sight with a cocked head. "Is that...?"

  "Hey, your boyfriend is here," Isaac announces to Stiles just before someone knocks on the door.

  At first, Stiles has no idea what he's talking about, sputtering and throwing one of his crusts in Isaac's general direction, because his first thought is that there's no way the pack is back yet. And they wouldn't knock.

  Danny shakes his head at their antics and moves to answer the door himself, soon followed back into the room by Scott. Stiles immediately brightens, before realizing how late it is.

  "Scott, what the hell, buddy? It's, like, not even dawn."

  He shrugs sheepishly, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "'Couldn't sleep."

  "So your first thought is to traipse out into the middle of the forest at ass o'clock in the morning?"

  "Well, I wanted to see you."

  Isaac makes a gagging noise; Stiles makes sure to kick his shin on his way around the island, clapping Scott on the shoulder and dragging him to the living room. "Lydia went all mom on me, but since we have a guest, I obviously can't just got bed, can I?" He directs this at Danny's accusatory gaze, Isaac wolfing down another slice of turkey to hide his laugh.

  "You're the one that'll have to deal with her," Danny responds, shrugging at Stiles' fate. Stiles flaps his hand vaguely.

  "Semantics."

  He flops face-down onto the couch, the cushions dipping as Scott awkwardly sits on the other end. Stiles shifts so he can face his old best friend, and wow, did he miss him. The pack was great, more than great, about everything, but none of them were /Scott/. They shared crayons together. They ran through poison ivy together. They once trapped a poltergeist in a closet together.

  He grins just remembering.

  Scott raises his eyebrow at him. "What?"

  "I missed you, buddy." Stiles moves so he can tackle him into a hug, forgetting humans aren't nearly as tactile as wolves. Scott doesn't seem to mind, huffing out a laugh as they end up on the floor.

  "Hey, careful," Danny warns, putting away the mess Stiles had made in the kitchen. "We still don't know what's wrong with you; you could at least take it easy."

  Scott freezes and looks over at his friend as Stiles rolls off of him, on his back next to Scott. "What does he mean?"

  Stiles waves his hand again. "Worry not, my human compatriot. 'Took a spill earlier, nothing to write home about."

  Scott looks to Danny for confirmation, but the wolf just purses his lips and puts the mayonnaise in the fridge. Scott obviously isn't appeased by that, punching Stiles' shoulder lightly. "What the hell, dude."

  Stiles shrugs unapologetically, sitting up and shoving at his face, like he use to when Scott would steal all the blankets. "I said it was nothing. Ignore Danny's frowny face: he's more worriable than your gram was." Judging by Scott's expression, that's impossible. Stiles pouts. "No, seriously."

  "No one worried as much as gram."

  "Right, right." Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically and drags himself back to the couch, really only lying to himself if he actually thought he'd slept enough before. Scott seems to pick up on that, settling down next to him and letting him lean against his side.

  Scott's quiet for a while, which is a feat, considering Stiles can practically feel him vibrating with questions. He waits a while, though, before actually asking any, long enough that Stiles is more or less dozing against his shoulder. There might be drool too.

  "How'd Jackson and Danny get mixed up in all this?" Scott eventually asks, seeming to forget that Danny and Isaac are both still in earshot. Stiles grunts as much, willing Danny to answer so he doesn't have to sit up at all.

  Danny throws a piece of lettuce at them to show his distaste with that, but answers anyway. "Derek saved Jackson's ass, and Stiles saved mine."

  "What did Jackson do that he needed saving?"

  "A giant lizard fucked up the lacrosse game," Stiles mumbles against Scott's collarbone, snorting. Scott obviously hadn't pursued their childhood dream of joining the team if he didn't know about the kanima. "Didn't you notice Jackson disappeared for, like, a week?"

  Scott shakes his head. "No, I never really talked to him. I thought he moved to LA for senior year."

  "He did." Danny sits back down at the island, popping open a coke. "Lydia and I went with him."

  "So why did you come back?"

  ". . . Complications."

  Stiles snorts. "Jackson accidentally bit Danny."

  Scott grimaces, looking down at Stiles. "And you saved him?"

  "I probably would have bled out, yeah. Stiles is good with spells."

  "Dude, you can do magic?" Scott perks up, excitement back in his voice. "That's so cool!"

  "Not as cool as the stuff Lydia can do, trust me. 'Sides, now that she's back, I don't have to do anything."

  "So. . . this place is kind of like a hideout, then?"

  Stiles pauses, pulling back to look at his friend. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Well, you're all avoiding Beacon Hills for something, right? I mean, it's been almost four years, and you never came back."

  "Scott, I thought my dad was dead."

  "Yeah, but what about mom and I?" Scott looks genuinely hurt, but Stiles couldn't really care less, shoulders tense.

  Isaac comes to his defense, halfway through the door on the way to his room. "He tried to come back," he tells Scott. "Several times. 'Didn't work out." His tone dares Scott to argue.

  Scott knows better, and deflates a little, slumping on the couch. And okay, Stiles feels a little bad about that, but he doesn't get the chance to apologize, or console him, or anything.

  Scott's phone starts ringing loudly, all of them nearly jumping out of their skins. Scott shuffles around to pull it out of his pocket, checking the caller ID. "It's your dad."

  Stiles snatches the phone from him, answering it. "Yo, dad. What's up?" The Sheriff takes a shaky breath from the other end, Stiles sitting up properly. "Dad? Is everything okay?"

  "It's good to hear your voice, kid."

  "Dad, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing, nothing. We just got some disturbance complaints near the edge of the preserve, freak noises, a shoe."

  "Ah, so nothing new." Stiles relaxes and flops back down, relieved.

  "It's right on Hale's border, so I thought he'd like to know. 'Didn't have your number, though. Do you have a phone?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I can text you the number. Thank for the heads up, pops. And, dad."

  "Yeah, kid?"

  "It's good to hear from you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, chapter 14! Oh god, I have base outlines up to chapter 35, and I'm only through the first two arcs? I promised myself I wouldn't commit to a story of this length. The longest story I ever wrote was thirty two chapters, and they were not even a thousand words (2012 was a dark time), so this is just. I'm gonna do it. I'm making myself finish this. I appreciate any one of you that'll stick with me that long (I'm hoping to finish this before I start college this fall sooo).
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your support up to this point! Constructive criticism is always appreciated! Ways to fix characterization, grammar/spelling, story ideas, anything. Seriously, just, thank you guys for your support. It seriously means so much.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	15. Chapter 15 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _December 28th, 2010_
> 
> Derek doesn't want to deal with another rogue Argent, doesn't want to put his new pack in danger, but some supe thought it was okay to attack a human.
> 
> Even werewolves know there is an uncrossable line there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa I actually got this up on time?? I was expecting to get it up late so wow sorry this is so short. But I'm hinting at the main arc now? Ye? I don't have many hint drops planned for a while, but I'll try to include one every few chapters or so.

   The Stilinski house isn't hard to find, all Derek has to do is follow the smell of smoke; even to human noses, the week since the fire has done nothing to rid the air of the stench, Derek thinks. Isaac says he can still smell it all the way in the preserve.

  Living in the shell of his old home has desensitized him to the memories a little bit, but walking up to Stiles' husk of a house, walls barely still standing three feet off the ground, something dark and nasty curls into the pit of Derek's stomach. Nothing seems to have survived, all an unnatural shade of charcoal black. Parts of the roof and the ceiling of the first floor have crushed everything underneath, the couch, the remains of the TV.

  It's not steaming anymore, the rain of the past few days successfully having put it all out, but the ground is still a bit warm when Derek steps over the burnt threshold. The walls of the hall are all but gone, but mostly clear of debris from everything but the ceiling. Derek makes quick work of finding the living room; the only coherent thing they had gotten from Stiles since they'd brought him in was that it had been vamps, and they had been in the living room.

  And despite the week that had passed, the rain and the smoke and the firefighters, the smell of the vamps shouldn't be this faint. Derek knows this as soon as he steps into the room.

  Blood, he can definitely smell Stiles' blood, and that of what he can only assume is his father's, but he can barely smell that vamps had been here at all. He's pretty sure the stain next to the couch is vamp blood, but it's like all individual characteristics have been sucked out of it; it's just blood, like it didn't even belong to anyone.

  Which is just concerning.

  Derek crouches down and moves aside a piece of the ceiling to run his fingers over the stain, inhaling deeply to try and get something, anything from it. But he has to stop, almost feeling the ash choking his lungs. He honestly just wants to get out of there, go back home, but he forces himself to check the entire house for any kind of trace.

  He doesn't find anything, but outside where he thinks the bathroom use to be, something shiny catches his eye. Under a cracked shelf, Derek fishes out a scuffed badge, and /Christ/, Stiles' dad had been the Sheriff. The same sheriff that had picked him and Laura up from the house after the fire, told them it was going to be alright, ensured Laura got custody of him.

  Derek stands and tucks the badge into his jacket pocket, quickly leaving the ruins and ducking under the yellow tape surrounding the property. Once he's back in his Camaro, he pulls out his phone to find the vet's office, because if anyone knows how vamps could hide their scent, it's Deaton.

  He may break a few traffic laws on his way over.

  Deaton is in one of the back rooms when Derek arrives, bent over a dog that perks up when he walks into the room. Deaton turns after a moment, and doesn't seem to pick up on the low-key anger vibrating under Derek's skin.

  "Derek," he says, surprised. "What brings you to Beacon Hills?"

  Derek looks the vet up and down. He's never been sure of Deaton's loyalties, and they seem even vaguer now; if someone in town had wanted to hide themselves, they would have come to the druid. So he doesn't mention Stiles. "If someone wanted to hide their identity, even their scent, how would they do it?"

  "There are many ways, but most fail when it comes to werewolves' sense of smell. Are you in trouble enough to need such a method?"

  Derek frowns. "What ways are there to hide from a werewolf?"

  Deaton eyes him suspiciously, patting the dog's head as he turns to face Derek completely. "There are certain spells, but I do not know them. It requires a great deal of power."

  His heartbeat remains the same, but Derek knows he can't trust that; Deaton has been involved with the Hale pack for as long as he'd been in Beacon Hills. Surely by now, he'd know how to mask his intent.

  "Would you know if a spell like that had been used in Beacon Hills?"

  Leaning onto the metal table behind him, Deaton rubs a hand over his stubble. "Not automatically, but I could create a spell, if you wished. What are you looking for, Derek?" Derek doesn't answer, lips a thin line. Deaton sighs. "Does this have anything to do with the Stilinski fire? If it does, Derek, I suggest you leave it to the Argents."

  Derek laughs harshly. "They haven't even been to the scene. Tell me they don't think it's a random attack, and I'll back off from it."

  "You know I can't do that."

  "Then yes, I'd like you to make that spell."

  "Why are you so interested? You've never showed much interest in the wellbeing of the town before." Deaton pats the dog again when it pokes its snout around his arm.

  "There's another freak fire set to kill a family, and you expect me not to be interested?" Derek snorts and turns to leave. "Call me when you've finished the spell."

  Derek leaves quickly after that, skin crawling uncomfortably. He knows the fire that killed his family has nothing to do with this one, but they feel almost identical. Too close together, too similar. Derek doesn't want to deal with another rogue Argent, doesn't want to put his new pack in danger, but some supe thought it was okay to attack a human.

  Even werewolves know there is an uncrossable line there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh you guys are so wonderful I have no words. Thank you guys so much for your comments and kudos and everything T*T They mean so much.
> 
> This chapter got away from me a little bit, so I'm sorry if it's confusing or anything. Derek is proving really difficult to write as a character, and I've got a handle on Deaton like a bouncy ball does a high speed train, and just yeah. Sorry ^_^'
> 
> Suggestions, corrections, or questions are always welcome and appreciated! Thank you for sticking with me, and with this. I'm really excited about the last arc, so I hope it lives up to the expectations and standards set by the fandom.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And while Stiles is extremely curious about the other supes Derek has come in contact with, he focuses on the entries from Derek's time in New York, looking for friendlies and allies. There aren't many, not as many as Stiles had expected, but enough that Stiles is pretty confident about one of them having heard from Laura recently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, sorry about the late upload! I had a whole bunch of school stuff this weekend, and this chappie's a bit longer than usual, sooo ^-^' Forgive me.
> 
> *flails what is Derek what is Stiles what is character what is writing* I'm actually so sorry for everything.
> 
> (Blood magic is mentioned in this, and will become important later, so I apologize if people aren't comfortable with that; from here on out, blood will be mentioned quite often.)

  Scott is snoozing on Stiles's shoulder when he realizes it's been well over an hour since the pack had left. From the other side of the room, Danny seems to have realized it as well, leg bouncing on the footrest of the kitchen stool and making a minute squeaking noise that's going to drive Stiles insane.

  "They should be back by now," Danny says to no one, starting to drum his fingers as well; Stiles does his best not to comment on it.

  Isaac shuffles back into the living room from the hall, looking quite comfy in sweats and a pair of Derek's socks. He flops down on Stiles' other side and mushes his face into his thigh, grunting unhappily. "Yeah, buddy, I know," Stiles mumbles as he rubs his thumb into Isaac's nape; Isaac mewls, pleased.

  "Do you think we should try to call them?"

  Stiles shakes his head. "Only Lydia would have her phone; if something's wrong, it could blow their cover."

  "Yeah, _if_  there's something wrong."

  "We can't risk it, Isaac."

  Scott shuffles around a little, but doesn't wake, letting out one of his awkward asthma-induced snores. Stiles watches him for a moment, but he can't focus; everything feels wrong. His skin tingles uncomfortably, like there's something in his veins trying to claw its way out, and something must have gone wrong with the pack. Deep down, he knows, like he knows Jackson will forever be a douche.

  Isaac suddenly bolts upright, and if it weren't for the voices approaching the front door, he'd think Isaac had fallen asleep. "They're here," he says unnecessarily, as the remainder of the pack files into the house, and Stiles only has to look at Derek to know that something had gone _horribly_  wrong.

  Stiles shoves Scott off carelessly as the wolves quickly dress in the clothes they'd left behind, but he only waits long enough for Derek to put on his pants before he demands to know what had happened. Derek just looks at him for a moment, features barely shifted back to human and staying that way.

  He pushes past Stiles without saying anything, crossing the living room in a few strides to the table and rooting through the pile of papers until he finds an old address book. Starting to leaf through it, he thoroughly ignores Stiles.

  Grinding his teeth, Stiles looks to Erica, who crumbles after barely a moment. "He smelled Laura."

  He whips around to look at Derek, who doesn't react. "Laura? As in your sister, Laura? Laura Hale?" Derek doesn't answer, and Stiles is supremely over their alpha's angsting. "Isaac, explain."

  Isaac sends Derek a worried look from the couch, but he still isn't paying attention. "She stayed in New York when Derek came back to Beacon Hills. They haven't talked in years."

  "What's she doing back, then?"

  "We don't know, but she smelled scared," Jackson speaks up, yanking on his socks. "There were others with her, at the Nemeton."

  "Others? Like, other wolves?"

  "Derek says vamps, but. . ."

  "But what?" Stiles grits, deciding to leave dead squirrels in Derek's bed for the next week.

  "We just knew they were vamps. We don't know if they were a coven, or how many, nothing. We'd never be able to track them, and Laura's scent trail disappeared," Boyd says, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Now they're getting somewhere, Stiles thinks, relieved that at least the betas have their heads right now. "Okay. Lydia? What does this mean for us?"

  "They were doing some kind of magic there, I could feel it. I have no idea what it was, but they haven't succeeded whatever it is. I think it has something to do with the pulses the Nemeton is giving off," she answers promptly, letting Danny nose into her neck. "We don't know what they'd need Laura for."

  "Okay." Stiles sucks in a deep breath and puts his revenge aside for the moment. He steels himself, then turns to the alpha. "Derek." When he gets no answer, he moves closer and snatches the address book from Derek's hands. He snaps it closed as he leans against the table next to Derek's chair.

  Derek bares his teeth. "I need that to find Laura."

  "Not right now, you don't." Stiles holds the book out of his reach when Derek makes a grab for it. "No." Though Derek could easily overpower him if he really wanted to, he doesn't try, just continues to glare up at Stiles. "Deep breath."

  Derek looks like he's going to bitch about it, but Stiles pulls his "mom look", honed from years of observing Ms. McCall talk him and Scott down from truly stupid ideas. He's used it more in the past few years that he'd really like to admit, but it seems to work, Derek only giving a short growl before obeying and taking a deep breath. "Again," Stiles orders, and Derek just glares this time as he complies.

  Stiles sets down the book behind him, and watches Derek deflate. He physically crumples a little, and he looks so pitiful that Stiles gently pulls him forward until he's leaning against Stiles' stomach. Based on the token lack of protest, Stiles gives himself a pat on the back.

  Looking up from the back of his alpha's head, Stiles nods to Isaac and Danny, who — along with the rest of the pack — had been watching them. They take their cue quite eagerly and start collecting all the pillows and blankets strewn about the living room, piling them on the pull-out bed that Scott quickly scrambles up from, standing off to the side awkwardly. Erica and Boyd return with the blankets from all of their rooms, tossing them into the makings of their usual cuddle puddle; Jackson even contributes the expensively soft comforter from his room.

  Erica is the first to crawl into the mess of fabric, quickly followed by Boyd after he removes his coat. Once the rest of the pack starts puddling, Stiles looks back to Derek, who doesn't look inclined to move for the next year. "Hey," he mumbles, trying to sound stern. Derek grunts, and doesn't look up from Stiles' stomach. He snorts fondly, tugging gently on Derek's tufty hair. "C'mon, you big baby."

  It takes a little more coaxing on Stiles' part, but he eventually gets Derek over to the bed, and Stiles is quite happy with himself when he doesn't complain at all. Isaac doesn't give Stiles time to sort out where Scott is going to fit into all of this, tugging their human down between him and Derek at the head of the bed before he can speak. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Erica yank Scott into the pillow fort and claim his shoulder for her head, so he isn't worried.

  Derek lets Stiles get situated on his back before appropriating him as a human teddy bear, and he really must be feeling the epitome of shittiness, because Derek wastes no time in shoving his face into Stiles' neck. Usually, there's buildup to it, or an excuse for why Derek is scenting him unnecessarily, but Derek skips all of that and mashes his forehead against Stiles' shoulder with no apology.

  Isaac wriggles up on his other side and uses his stomach for a pillow, mostly covered by the quilt he'd dragged up with him. Amused, Stiles waits until he's comfortable so he can wriggle an arm out from under Derek to start tugging at his hair again.

  "We'll find her," he promises quietly, looking up at the ceiling as Scott squirms so his head is outside of the blankets. "She'll be alright, Derek. We'll call around tomorrow, and we _will_  find her. She'll be fine."

  Derek sighs against his shoulder, deeply, and tightens his arms. With the pressure, the thrumming in Stiles' chest that hasn't gone away since Lydia got back, his bond to the Nemeton, he thinks, starts to lessen. Abate a little. He doesn't think anything of the fact that the closer Derek holds him, the less he notices the warble of that bond; it's just a relief that he doesn't feel like looking into.

  He keeps mumbling nothings to the lightening room, until he's sure the pack is asleep. The thrum is almost completely gone by then, but it keeps Stiles awake, because something is still very wrong.

  He's sure of that.

//~//

  The pack sleeps through the night easily, and well into the next morning. Around seven, Stiles has the sense to finagle his way through the covers to Scott's pocket to retrieve his phone. He pulls up Melissa's contact and shoots her a text, assuring her that Scott is alright, and safe with him. She calls him a bastard for disappearing like that, and demands he come over for dinner before the week is out.

  Stiles is grinning for hours.

  He dicks around on Scott's phone for a while after that, playing games, switching the names of his contacts, putting ridiculous things into his autocorrect. It's all quite fun, but eventually he starts looking into the news of the town that he'd been ignoring for the past four years. None of it is all that surprising, just run of the mill stuff, aside from an article talking about a valor award his dad had gotten soon after Stiles had disappeared, and he kind of just wants to punch himself in the face. If he'd just been keeping up on stuff that had happened, he'd have known years ago that his dad hadn't been killed.

  Several hours after that, sometime around noon, Stiles' bladder demands enough attention that he dares to wriggle himself out of Derek and Erica's clutches, Isaac having moved to occupy Scott's left side. Luckily, Derek's grip had loosened considerably throughout the night, and Stiles manages to escape to the bathroom.

  Stiles showers as an afterthought, deciding that despite the itching behind his eyes, he woudn't be getting any sleep anyway.

  He leaves the bathroom in a plume of steam that Isaac will bitch about later (Stiles is quite fond of his floral body wash, thank you very much; the resident wolves can just deal with it), and the pack hasn't moved an inch since he'd left. He almost wants to throw a bucket of water at them, but under current circumstances, he decides his prank can wait.

  After wolfing down a couple of slices of bread, he sits in Derek's chair at the table, studying his alpha's organization for a moment before diving into the books and maps. He puts all of the documents in an order that makes much more sense (really just scattered in whatever way his ADHD dictated), then picks up the address book Derek had been looking in before. All of the contacts have notes under them about who they actually are, like Angel is a vamp outside some other small-ass California town, David is another wolf somewhere in London?

  And while Stiles is extremely curious about the other supes Derek has come in contact with, he focuses on the entries from Derek's time in New York, looking for friendlies and allies. There aren't many, not as many as Stiles had expected, but enough that Stiles is pretty confident about one of them having heard from Laura recently.

  Fifteen emails later, and after several phone calls, Stiles starts on the spell books they've amassed and restored over the years, looking for anything that could help them. He makes a list, and is more than pleased with it by the time he fills several pages with scribbles.

  He's ready to start practicing some of the runes so Lydia won't have to later, but before he can, he hears a soft mumble from the pack cuddle puddle, more a short release of breath than anything, "Stiles?"

  He looks up from his laptop, to Derek, who is carefully sitting up and looking around the room.

  "Over here," Stiles answers quietly so he doesn't wake the rest of the pack. Derek's eyes find him quickly, and he relaxes a little, tension leaving him almost at once; Stiles smiles a little.

  Derek rubs a hand over his face, before carefully extracting himself from Isaac and plodding over to the table. He makes no comment about Stiles being in his spot, sitting next to him sleepily, and wow sleepy Derek is best Derek.

  Stiles grins for a moment (Derek isn't amused), then shakes himself and grabs one of the books he'd been searching through. He flips to a page he'd bookmarked hours ago and pushes it across the table to Derek, pointing at a complicated spell he'd had to triple check to make sure was legit.

  Derek raises an eyebrow questioningly.

  "It's a spell I found. If it works, it could help us protect the Nemeton from whoever is fucking with it, yeah? The magic itself isn't all that hard, and we have all the ingredients here, actually. There's more spells, here," he grabs his notebook. "all of them protection or defensive. Lydia can do some of them on her own, but, uh, the first one and the others need spark blood."

  "Stiles, no. We've talked about this. No blood magic," Derek says firmly without hesitation.

  Stiles pleads, "Derek, c'mon. Some of these are, like, sensors. Trip wires. We'll know when and who gets near the Nemeton, so we won't even have to rely on scent."

  "I said no, Stiles. We'll find another way to find out who it is." He cuts off Stiles' next argument with a hand, and a well-placed alpha glare. "Even if we put these up, we don't know what's going on with you. What if powerful magic like this fucks with... whatever this is even more?"

  "C'mon, Derek," Stiles scoffs. "What are the chances?"

  "In Beacon Hills? Pretty freaking high, Stiles."

  "I think we should take the risk. We could find Laura!"

  "This isn't a discussion."

  Stiles growls and stands up, knowing if he really gets into this, he'll start yelling, and he doesn't want to wake the pack.

  But they're already all watching them anyway, in various stages of wakefulness, and all seeming to agree with Derek. Erica even gives him a pitying look, and _wow_  Stiles has not gotten enough sleep to deal with this.

  He makes a frustrated noise and, no, he does not storm towards the hallway, he regally removes himself from the room before he throws a flower pot at Derek.

  Halfway down the hall, Stiles admits to himself that Derek is probably right, and blood magic is dangerous for experienced witches and sparks, possibly downright deadly for someone like him. He'll never concede that to Derek, of course, because that means he's lost and he'll have to sit on the sidelines again, but he can admit it to himself.

  A few more steps after that, Stiles decides that the universe officially hates him and agrees with Derek, because suddenly the floor isn't under his feet. Which Stiles could probably ignore if his vision wasn't tunneling and he didn't feel his shoulder hitting the wall hard enough to knock down one of the many pictures hanging there.

  Stiles thinks he lands on the broken glass of the frame, but he isn't cognizant long enough to really know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if the plot seems to be dragging out at all 'cause of the skippy-chapter-thing I have going? I've come this far, and the backstories I've planned coming up are super important, so I don't want to stop, but I don't want you guys to lose interest because the main plot isn't progressing T^T Maybe I'll try posting two chapters at once and see if that helps?
> 
> (For the cutie who asked, my main tumblr is titherintheheathers. I'm not super active 'cause of school, but my likes is a wonderful place trust me)
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	17. Chapter 17 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _August 13th, 2011_
> 
> "Isaac, I'm not calling you again!" Stiles yells from the kitchen, dishing out overcooked green beans onto the five plates laid out on the counter. "I told you not to put me in charge of the beans," he mutters while Boyd and Derek are scooping spaghetti into a large bowl, Erica decidedly not helping at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating has gone up for violence content, that I realize I'm going to have more of than originally intended. Sexuality will be kept to kissing, maybe sitting on laps, but clean other than that for readers that find that distracting or uncomfortable. I might upload a one shot later, since someone asked, but I don't really write smut 'cause it just doesn't interest me soooo
> 
> And wow I hate how this chapter turned out, I'm so sorry I don't even know what happened to it. I tried.
> 
> (I took some liberty with the whole "spark" thing. I don't remember how much was said in the show, so I've built up my own lore on it)

  Stiles finds the remains of the Hale library eight months into his stay with the pack. Most of the house is minutes away from collapse, so Stiles had stuck to the part that Derek had cleared for the betas; Stiles thinks it was the main kitchen and living room, but really, who knows with house this big. That spring, Derek had actually cleaned some of the bedrooms up the only remaining staircase, but the stupid puppy wouldn't hear a word of him asking to rebuild it all.

  Which is just stupid, honestly; Stiles can see how big it was from the outside. Derek's never said how many people actually died in the fire, but Stiles thinks it's upwards of thirty; there's certainly enough space in the husk of a home to have fit that many.

  The library is one of the few rooms near the back that still has a roof, protecting that fifty odd books that aren't ash. Stiles had found it while the pack was out for their morning run, but they'd gotten back before he could explore it, so he heads back there as soon as Derek leads the betas into the forest for the full moon.

  The floor isn't much better than the hall, covered in debris, and charred stains that cut through what must have been expensive floorboards. Kneeling down and running a hand over a somewhat intact section, Stiles thinks it could have been oak.

  There's another door directly across from the entrance, looking like it led to a much larger part of the library, but only half the door remains, and whatever had been on the other side is ash now, leaving only the small room Stiles had found. Bookshelves line the walls, but two of them are collapsed, with nothing salvageable. The shelves on either side of the door are intact, but empty, leaving the two bookcases hedging the other door.

  Stiles walks over the rubble to get to them. At first, he doesn't touch any of the slightly-blackened books, afraid they'll disintegrate as soon as he touches them. It takes several minutes to steel himself enough to even find half the courage it takes to pull the first leather-bound book from the shelf.

  He clears the shelves of the books in that first hour, and all, save for three, are actually readable. Stiles had gone in hoping for some kind of fiction to make the hours sitting alone in the house more bearable, War and Peace or something, but what the books contain are much better. The first couple seem to be part of series on magic users, some of the red ink of the covers still visible through their burns. He picks out an anthology of the magical history of Beacon Hills, and a dictionary of plants with magical properties, and even a huge tome dedicated strictly to werewolves.

  With the books laid out in a cloud around his seat on the remains of a chair cushion, choosing which to read first is actually one of the hardest decisions Stiles has faced in a long time. He'd read a couple of books from the school and public libraries, but they were far older than when supes became known, and most of the information was bullshit. These books, though, Stiles is sure are entirely fact. He feels giddy with excitement.

  He chooses a green-bound pocket-sized book on magic theory, deciding to read up on werewolves — he'd never had a reason to before — later. The front cover and half of the title page are burned off, but the rest of it seems intact, so Stiles drags the cushion to a wall to lean against, and settles down.

  Halfway through it, two hours later, Stiles realizes how amazingly boring magic theory actually is. Bar chemistry Freshman year, Stiles had excelled in science, so he can mostly understand what the author is talking about when they say magic is just energy, and users are channels for that energy. It isn't a lack of understanding that has Stiles falling asleep mid-page, it's the author's inane ability to suck all the fun out of magic. Stiles hadn't thought it possible.

  He abandons that book by the time the afternoon rain clouds roll in, pulling out the camping lantern he'd taken from Boyd's emergency crate as the sky darkens with the usual storm. It fills the room with a tacky, orange glow that makes Stiles' eyes itch a little, but he ignores it and grabs a book at random.

  This one is almost as boring as the first, until Stiles flips to a page labeled _Sparks_ , with the caption _"A Spark is a being with a token of magical power that comes purely from within. The magic is channeled through objects such as mountain ash, or certain weapons._ " And, okay, the text itself _is_  as boring as the first, but Stiles finds himself riveted.

  Sometimes Stiles forgets that there are still people alive that had never heard of supes until forty years ago; his dad, for one. A lot had been done to improve understanding between the two groups, but Stiles is just realizing how little humans truly know about their supernatural counterparts.

  For instance, some people that seem human are in fact Sparks, or beings with magical powers. Or the ability to control magic; Stiles still isn't entirely clear, scanning the page quickly. _"Belief is the driving source of a Spark’s magic, which cannot be used without the Spark’s full consent and faith._ "

  "Belief?" he mumbles to himself, quickly flipping the pages in hopes to find something with better explanation. When he finds nothing, he grabs a journal from the stack. Inside, just as he'd suspected, are sections full of runes and simple spells, and near the back is a small table with _Spark_  scrawled across the top. It doesn't really help clarify what "belief" is, but reading the runes causes something to tingle in Stiles' fingertips.

  He considers closing the book, and returning when he's less tired, but he can't bring himself to, not with that stirring under his skin.

  Scanning the table, Stiles focuses on the descriptions labeling each spell. Witch ward, rabbit repellent, lost object trace...

  Insect repellant.

  Stiles slaps a mosquito off his arm almost as if in decision, the sound of bugs battering against the lantern drawing his attention. "What are the odds if...?" he wonder aloud, watching a moth slam itself against the cracked plastic until it drops to the burnt floorboard.

  He reads the spell over several times, sounding it out under his breath. Once he's almost sure he's got it, he sets down the journal and closes his eyes. And with a deep breath. "Feithidi ar shiu—"

  "Stiles?" Erica calls from somewhere down the collapsed hallway, Stiles nearly jumping out of his skin.

  He hopes Erica hadn't heard his squeak as he scrambles up and grabs the lantern from the floor. He ducks under a beam from the ceiling just outside of the door, and kicks aside a broken chair to reach the remains of a sitting room, where Erica is watching him with a raised eyebrow.

  She sniffs around him curiously, and Stiles ducks away from it, wrinkling his nose. "Gross, Erica."

  "What were you doing back here? You smell like shit."

  "Exploring. Duh." Not entirely a lie, so she lets it drop.

  "Whatever, loser. Derek wants help with dinner." She turns and starts walking back towards the main part of the house, leaving Stiles to groan after her.

  "But I hate cooking!"

//~//

  "Isaac, I'm not calling you again!" Stiles yells from the kitchen, dishing out overcooked green beans onto the five plates laid out on the counter. "I told you not to put me in charge of the beans," he mutters while Boyd and Derek are scooping spaghetti into a large bowl, Erica decidedly not helping at all.

  Isaac wanders into the main room a minute later, looking confused and a bit lost. Stiles frowns. "What's up, buddy?"

  "Did you guys take the ants out of my ant farm?"

  "Oh great, we have a colony of ants somewhere in the house," Erica grumbles, but Stiles drops the green beans, and doesn't care that the bowl shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally making a timeline for everything in this, and I realized I made a mistake back in chapter nine in concerns to that timeline, so I've made just a minor fix so continuity is correct. I have the Δ chapter order up on the notes of the series, and I'm p sure it's all accurate? I'm really bad and visualizing things, so I'm sure there's a mistake somewhere; if you find one, let me know!
> 
> On that note, I have added dates to all the Δ chapters, and will add dates to the main chappies in due time, so everything's consistent. Those dates won't be too important, save when I do any kind of time skip, which probably won't be often. I hope this isn't all too confusing ^-^' 
> 
> God, you guys are all so wonderful. There are many a better story out there that you guys could be reading and commenting on, and that you're here on mine is amazing. Thank you, I have no words.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He yanks back his hand when Stiles flinches, but the human quickly stills, going boneless against the carpeted floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the late update. I've had an atrocious week, a medical scare, and a teacher that I think wants to flunk me on principle. However, Chapter 19 will be up today as well to make up for it, and updates should go back to normal.
> 
> I said quite a few chapters ago that I would be doing a rewrite of this later, and because of how much I'm truly disliking how my chapters have been coming out, to help me finish this, I've started that rewrite. Updates won't be as frequent as on this one, but hopefully I'll be releasing a chapter of each story every weekend. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the things you've been saying on this. I wouldn't have made it this far if you guys didn't enjoy it, and just. Thank you.

   Derek moves quickly, but Isaac is the still the first to make it to Stiles. Lydia quickly moves Isaac aside as Derek wedges himself into the narrow hall, watching Lydia copy Erica's movements before. Once Stiles is on his side, Derek looks up at his pack, flooded into the hall but standing back, as if afraid of coming closer.

  "Boyd, call Deaton," Derek instructs, though he's quickly drowned out by Scott.

  "Stiles? Guys what's going on what's wrong with Stiles," he says in a rush, trying to shove past Danny to get to Stiles.

  Jackson grabs him after just a look from Derek, easily dragging Scott from the hall and into the closest door. It muffles Scott's shouting some, but it makes an uncomfortable din that Derek does his best to push from his mind.

  Underneath his skin, his wolf growls and scratches to be let out, furious that one of his betas is hurt and he can't do a thing; Derek tries to keep a firm grip on the alpha instincts that beg to _fix fix fixfixfix._

  The pack flinches when Scott starts banging his fist on the bathroom door, and though there's no way he'd be able to open it with Jackson's hand on the doorknob, it's easier to focus on the noise than on Stiles. Maybe that's why Derek thinks it's a good idea to reach out to Stiles, running a hand over his gently jerking head.

  He yanks back his hand when Stiles flinches, but the human quickly stills, going boneless against the carpeted floor.

  Lydia shoots him a tight look, but doesn't mention it, for which Derek is entirely too grateful. "Stiles," she says instead, gently touching Stiles' shoulder. He groans softly.

  "You might be right, Derek," Stiles says hoarsely; Derek thinks celebration can wait until later.

  Lydia helps Stiles sit up against the wall, and Derek moves away a little, still close, but not nearly close enough to touch him again. Stiles groans again and thunks his head back against the wall, then looks towards the bathroom. "'That Scott?"

  "He was kicking up too much fuss," Lydia defends, smoothing over Stiles' hair and checking his pulse. "Boyd, how are we on the Deaton front?" Stiles cocks his head at Derek, then gently nudges his foot with his own.

  "M'alright, sourwolf," he mumbles, quiet enough that not even Lydia would have heard.

  "He left as soon as I called," Boyd is saying. "Ten minutes."

  Scott's pounding gets a bit more insistent and Stiles glares at Jackson. "Let him out already. He's gonna fuck the paint job." Jackson is ready to argue, but after a moment, takes his hand off the doorknob.

  Scott all but tumbles into the hallway, looking around for a moment, then shoves his way over to Stiles. Derek moves a bit out of the way as Scott latches onto Stiles' side.

  "You are a fucking liar," he says to Stiles. "You said Danny was exaggerating."

  "He was. Look, see? 'Totally fine." Stiles mumbles a thanks as Erica shoves a glass of water into his hand, drinking it eagerly.

  "This isn't what I'd call 'fine'," Scott snaps. Stiles looks only a little guilty, leaning into Lydia's hand as she checks his head over.

  Derek swallows and tries to shake off the feeling of dread settled over his skin. An alpha can't be down for the count when the whole pack is panicking, Derek knows. He _knows_ , but the dead look in Stiles' eyes feels like its ripping something from his chest.

  He jerks when Stiles nudges him again. "Stop making that face, or it'll freeze like that," Stiles warns him.

  Danny snorts and shakes his head incredulously down the hall. Stiles pouts. "Guys, stop hovering. I'm fine."

  Scott scoffs from where he's smushing his face against Stiles' neck. "Right, fine. Isn't a pack supposed to look out for its members?" The pack tenses. "Why haven't they done anything to help?"

  Derek bristles, shoulders going taut. Stiles takes one look at him before kicking him firmly, daring Derek to say anything. "Scott," Stiles grits, turning to his friend. "Deaton is the only one that has any inkling of what's going on."

  "You could still be looking—"

  "Like where? The internet is about as reliable as your dad, and we're only just starting to build up our own library again. There's no where _to_  look. None of this is their fault."

  Scott quiets under Stiles' glare, falling silent and looking appropriately shamed.

  After a moment, Stiles sighs and pushes away Lydia's mothering hands. "I'm _fine_ , Lyds, stop it."

  "I think you and I have two very different definitions of ' _fine_ ', Stiles."

  Isaac knocks his head against one of the picture frames as he snaps his attention to the door. Derek focuses and hears a car coming up the long driveway. "Deaton's here," Isaac says unnecessarily.

  "Already?" Derek mumbles to himself pushing himself up to his feet. He doesn't move any further away from Stiles though, nodding to Jackson to open the door once Deaton's footsteps reach the door.

  Deaton wastes no time with pleasantries, squeezing himself into the hallway past the pack. He kneels down in front of Stiles, pulling out a penlight and shining it into both of Stiles eyes.

  "Nice to see you too," Stiles mutters, rubbing his eyes as Deaton puts the penlight back into his pocket.

  "Mr. Stilinski, did you feel anything before your seizure?"

  "Like what?"

  "You mentioned a bond before. Like your bond to your pack."

  "Yeah, that fucking _hurt_ ," he grumbles, frowning. Deaton mirrors his expression, and Derek has to stop himself from moving forward.

  "And this happened the first two times as well?"

  "It didn't hurt like this. Before. 'Just kind of felt it tug a little."

  Deaton hums in thought, rubbing a hand over his head. He turns to Lydia. "Did you feel it?"

  She shakes her head. "Not really. Just enough to know something was wrong."

  "And you?" Deaton looks accusingly to Derek, and he barely manages not to jump in surprise.

  "What?"

  "Like we suspected before," Deaton turns back to Stiles, ignoring Derek. "I and the coven leaders I have been in contact with agree that this has something to do with your spark. You remember a Spark's powers relies on belief? And a druids on the earth?" Stiles nods. "For some reason, you're connected to the Nemeton, the epitome of earth magic, and your magic—"

  Derek's phone rings loudly, and Deaton looks none too pleased to be interrupted. Checking the caller ID, Derek answers as soon as he registers the sheriff's number.

  "Sheriff," he answers. On the other end, it sounds like John is in a car, and he's driving fast.

  "Derek, I'm on my way to a scene six miles from your house. There's been a murder, and my deputy says werewolf."

  "Murder?" he repeats numbly, wolf growling to have danger so close to home.

  Stiles freezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've said it on other chapters, but wow do I actually hate this chappie. I thought Stiles was going to be the hardest to write, but Scott is proving even more difficult, and I'm kind of kicking myself, 'cause he gets super big later in the story and I'll be writing from his PoV more. Look at the ditch I've dug myself.
> 
> Thank you to everyone that's made it this far, and for the support you've given me. Seriously, I don't know if you realize how much it means.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	19. Chapter 19 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _November 26th, 2011_
> 
> Derek sighs, because this is the exact opposite of what he'd rather be doing right now. "Stiles, we've talked about this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't decided if I want to do any Δ on when they're building the house. Maybe I'll do a oneshot?

  "Your library must have been amazing."

  Isaac snuffles quietly against Derek's side, head mushed at the crease between Stiles and Derek. With an arm over each of their waists, Isaac had successfully trapped them there hours before, the pack swaddled in all the blankets in the house and camped out in front of the couch. Normally, they have the sense to use the pullout bed, but all hope had been lost when Isaac had wriggled up over their legs and passed out.

  Derek hmms against the top of Stiles head, where he had leant his own when Stiles had shoved himself up and under Derek's arm. He's got a crick in his neck, and his cheek is a little numb from staying there so long, but Derek is more than comfortable, and he really can't find it in himself to move.

  He's too tired to respond fully to Stiles, and hopes the human will just drop it. He just wants to sleep.

  "You should rebuild it."

  Derek sighs, because this is the exact opposite of what he'd rather be doing right now. "Stiles, we've talked about this."

  "Derek, just listen?" Stiles shuffles to look up at him a little, but Derek still doesn't move, stubbornly not wanting to engage. Stiles speaks quietly, not enough that Derek has to strain to hear, but low enough that Isaac doesn't even stir. "You picked up Isaac, what, two years ago? It's been a while since he's had a proper home. Erica and Boyd too."

  Sighing again, Derek opens his eyes and looks to the far wall, where they have candles lit, casting shadows against the warped wallpaper. It is kind of morbid, he supposes, living in the husk of his old home.

  Stiles keeps talking despite not getting a response. "I know this was your family's, and I— Well, I understand wanting to hang onto the past." He drops his head again and snuggles in closer to Derek's side, sighing sleepily inward. "But you've got a new pack now. They deserve that."

  He isn't expecting Derek to say anything, he realizes, moving just enough to look at the top of Stiles' head.

  This is far from the first time Stiles has brought it up, their house. It's an almost weekly debate, and Derek has almost conceded multiple times just to get Stiles to stop pestering. But he does have a point, as much as Derek hates to admit. He's always had a point, but this is the first time Stiles has really used those words, like he was avoiding guilt tripping Derek until now.

  Derek swallows, curling his arm tighter around Stiles' small frame. When the human is as close as Derek can get him, and Stiles is mumbling happily, he says quietly, "Alright. I'll talk to some people in town."

  Stiles tips his head back to grin up at him, blindingly, and Derek thinks it isn't fair for Stiles to do this to him when he's so tired.

  With a pleased sound, Stiles burrows under the quilts Isaac had thrown at them earlier, nose pressed against the side of Derek's chest.

  "And Stiles?"

  "Yeah, Der?"

  "You deserve it too."

  Stiles doesn't answer for a while, long enough that he thinks Stiles had fallen asleep. But as the candles burn down into stubs, he feels Stiles shift, just a little. "Thank you," he whispers.

  Derek doesn't ask for what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for sticking with me. I'm a little happier with this chapter than the last one, if that helps, 'cause I know it gets real tiring real fast when people are constantly bashing their own works. So, just, thank you guys for putting up with me and this crack story. 
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wasn't there a lawsuit about Hale biting minors?"
> 
> "'Didn't hold any water; the kids asked for it, and two of them were orphans. The rest were all eighteen, I think."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short length; I have an AP test this week, so I've been studying for that.

  Isaac stops as soon as he steps outside Derek's car. The rest of the pack surges forward, easily picking their way through the swarm of policemen and EMTs to get to the Sheriff, but Isaac can't even bring himself to close the door.

  Even from here, he can smell the death, the rot.

  A deputy leans over to whisper to his companion, eyeing Isaac up and down. "Do you think this is the Hale pack?"

  "Of course," the other mutters back, pretending to read over the clipboard in his hands, but casting tight glances towards Isaac. "That's Derek Hale over by John."

  "Wasn't there a lawsuit about Hale biting minors?"

  "'Didn't hold any water; the kids asked for it, and two of them were orphans. The rest were all eighteen, I think."

  "Disgusting, really."

  Isaac snaps to glare at them, and they immediately silence, the first deputy ducking away quickly.

  His flash of anger doesn't help the biting worry at his stomach, though. It almost seems to make it worse, and Isaac has to clamp down on a whine. Across the crowd, Derek looks up, eyes flashing in concern. Isaac waves him off.

  "Everyone wants to chalk it up to an animal attack," John is saying to Derek, poking at something on the ground; the putrid scent grows stronger, Isaac having to clap a hand over his nose to keep from throwing up.

  "I smell another alpha," Derek responds tightly, kneeling down so Isaac can no longer see him over the heads of the other policemen. "I don't recognize the scent, but it's been a while since they were here."

  "I'll warn the argents. They-They're going to want to search everywhere, son. Including your property."

  Derek stands, dusting off his hands. "I don't want this so close to my home, Sheriff. My pack and I are ready to cooperate."

  The Sheriff pats his shoulder as Jackson takes Derek's spot by the body, and Isaac has the sudden urge to grab his pack and run.

  "Where's Stiles? I'd have thought he'd jump at the chance to see this."

  Derek stiffens, and Isaac can see his jaw tense from here. "Sleeping," he answers shortly,  turning to start his way back through the crowd. The pack follows without hesitation, only Lydia pausing to thank the Sheriff, but she's just as short with him as Derek had been.

  As the pack loads back into the car, Derek puts a hand on the back of Isaac's neck, forcing him to relax a little. "You good?"

  "Yeah. 'Smells awful."

  Derek nods. "They're cleaning it up now; the smell should go away in a few days."

  Once they're a safe distance away from the crime scene, Erica starts to fidget. Derek glances at her in the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow.

  "Why don't you trust the sheriff?" she asks, jutting her chin as if defending herself.

  Derek looks away at that, turning onto their driveway. "The sheriff never checked my property for Stiles. They never found a body."

  "You think he gave up?" Lydia pulls her hair up into a ponytail.

  "I think he should have searched longer."

  Isaac agrees.

//~//

  Scott doesn't know why he doesn't just leave; Stiles is asleep upstairs, and he's left with a brooding Boyd. He doesn't think there has ever been a more awkward silence. He should be heading home anyway, his mom is probably worrying, but leaving Stiles seems stupid at this point.

  Boyd is reading some book on fae, sitting at the table with one foot propped up on another chair. He hasn't said anything since the pack left, but it doesn't look like he's reading the book too intently, either.

  After almost an hour of fidgeting, Scott gets up from the couch to find the bathroom, if just to get out of the room for a bit. On his way though, he notices the many pictures lining the walls of the living room and the hallway.

  They kind of make the years Stiles spent with the pack seem all the more real: some of them have Stiles with the buzzcut that he'd disappeared with, and the rest just show the passage of time through him growing it out.

  Scott knows wolf packs are close, in every way possible, but the townsfolk of Beacon Hills don't have much interaction with werewolves, so Scott isn't quite expecting the intimacy in all of the photos. Pack cuddles, movie nights, rebuilding the Hale house. Almost all of them are candid. Scott kind of envies the ease at which everyone moves around each other.

  Derek is in hardly any of them, he's quick to realize, only appearing in a spare few scattered over the years. He's in a few of the big pack photos, but the rest he's with only Stiles. Stiles and Derek making pancakes. Stiles and Derek passed out on the couch with wrapping paper littering the floor. Stiles and Derek ripping up old floor boards. Stiles and Derek painting the living room.

  But there's one photo that makes Scott _seethe_. It's nearest to the hallway, where the photos continue, tacked onto the wall almost like an afterthought. Stiles is sitting on the counter, laughing at something out of the shot, and Derek is leaning against the counter next to him. He isn't laughing, he's just... watching Stiles like he's the reason the sun comes up, and Scott is so far from okay with that.

  Scott glances at Boyd, who is just as intently not-reading as he had been before. He clears his throat after a moment of thought, looking back to the pictures. "I guess Stiles really is part of your pack," he says carefully, hoping Boyd will divulge some kind of hint. Derek's gotta be at least ten years older than Stiles; there has to be some reason for him to be looking at Stiles like that.

  Boyd just simply says, "Yes, he is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously can't thank you all enough for the support you've given me on this. It means the world.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	21. Chapter 21 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _January 29th, 2012_
> 
> "No, Isaac, Justin fucking Willman is not better than Gordon Ramsey. The guy's a sham!"
> 
> "Are you kidding? Have you even seen him talk about—"
> 
> "At least Gordon Ramsey is an actual fucking chef!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I'm sorry for this shitty short chapter. The next one should be up tomorrow, and 23 should be up the day after. I'm sorry for the lateness on all of them; finals are coming up, it was my birthday, and I got a girlfriend so the past two weeks have been wild. It's my aim to upload two chapters a week once summer break starts.

Alan tucks the manilla folder he's carrying under his arm to lock the car door behind him, checking the passenger seat to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. The Hale lawn is quiet, but through the front windows, Alan can just make out the kitchen lights.

  It's a bit odd to see it rebuilt, he thinks, lightly trotting up the steps to the front door. He'd been there extensively when the rest of the Hales had been alive, then less when it had merely been a husk. He dare says this is the first time he's been there in a good year or so.

  He more than a little proud of Derek for finally rebuilding it.

  Finding the door unlocked, Alan pushes into the entryway, stepping into the hall just in time to catch the tail end of an indignant snap,

  "No, Isaac, Justin fucking Willman is _not_  better than Gordon Ramsey. The guy's a sham!"

  "Are you kidding? Have you even seen him talk about—"

  "At least Gordon Ramsey is an actual fucking chef!"

  Alan cautiously makes his way down the hall to the doorway to the kitchen, pausing in surprise.

  Isaac Lahey has his back towards him, standing at the end of the island. On _top_  of island, looking disgruntled and holding a bowl of granola, is one Stiles Stilinski, glaring at Lahey as if he had just insulted his mother.

  "Cupcake wars goes into the delicate process of pastr—"

  Stilinski scoffs loudly. "They're cupcakes, you twit. They're not that hard."

  "Yeah, says the guy that can only make pancakes," Lahey snaps in response.

  Alan can do little other than stand there in a state of confusion, because the last time he checked, Stiles Stilinski was six feet under in the Beacon Hills Cemetery. _Although_ , they never did find a body, he supposes, with a tilt of his head. How he ended up with the Hale pack is beyond him.

  He opens his mouth to ask, but doesn't get very far before Stilinski shifts on the counter, and Alan feels power kick him in the chest like a hammer, like Stilinski is—

  Stilinski looks up as Alan lets out a short breath, leaning a hand onto the doorjamb to keep himself upright. Lahey whips around like he's been caught in the cookie jar as Stilinski almost drops his bowl of granola.

  “Deaton?” Lahey asks cautiously, looking him up and down, but Alan ignores him, eyes on Stilinski, because that power, that signature is almost like...

  “Deaton,” Derek’s voice comes from down the hallway, the alpha quickly making his way towards them.

  “Derek, please explain.”

   He looks between Alan and Stilinski, then turns to him. “Stiles is part of my pack.”

  “He’s a wolf?” Alan doesn’t think so, the power Stilinski is giving off isn’t quite like the other weres in the house.

  “He’s human, but he’s ours.”

  “ _He_  is standing right here,” Stilinski mumbles grouchily.

  Derek ignores him. “We would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone that he’s here.”

  Alan pulls himself to look to Derek now, trying to get a read on the wolf, but Derek had always been good at hiding his intentions, even when he was a pup. He’s just as passive now as he had been then, and Alan gets nothing from him.

  It doesn’t matter, though: Alan has a list of books on Sparks to borrow from a friend. Then he’ll talk to Derek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I wasn't expecting all the support I've gotten on this. With a fandom, and a ship, so big I was kinda expecting to fly under the radar? But you guys have been so great and so supportive and god. The comments you guys leave are so inspiring and I just wish I could do better by you with better chapters. Just thank you. 
> 
> I doubt I'll be able to finish this by the time I start school again, but we shall see. Aside from one trip, I should be home most of the summer. 
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack looks pretty mellow, but the air is charged with tension that itches at Stiles’ skin, and he finds himself scratching at his wrists while he waits for the water to boil. Erica sends him a small smile from the table, which he doesn’t return, but he does force himself to relax a little; Lydia is eyeing him suspiciously and he doesn’t want to deal with her right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh this one is really short too, 'cause I had to deviate from my outline a bit. The next chapter should be normal length, and the one after that will definitely be longer. 
> 
> I also made edits to chapter 16 because wow why did no one point out how poorly I explained the spells. I didn't even understand what I had been trying to say there. So I've made some changes to have them make more sense, and I think I added a little plot hint. Thank you guys to much for putting up with my wonky explanations.
> 
> EDIT 5/31/15: OH LORDY WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME ABOUT THE FORMATTING MISTAKES. I'M SO SORRY THEY HAVE BEEN FIXED.

  When Stiles wanders downstairs the next day, he finds the pack grouped around the table, maps and journals littering the floor around them. He’s too sleepy to be too interested in what they’re doing, but he still pads over to check up on them; he isn’t satisfied until he kicks Jackson’s foot and he growls like normal.

  Appeased, Stiles trudges into the kitchen and puts the kettle on the stove. He starts riffling through the cabinets for the numerous jars of herbs and blossoms they’ve amounted over the years, pulling a random few out. Rosemary, rose petals, and thistle go into his favorite mug immediately, and betony as an after thought. He considers the catnip for a moment, but decides he doesn’t want to deal with Isaac scenting him for the next thirty minutes; the last time he’d made tea, Isaac had fallen asleep on him.

  The pack looks pretty mellow, but the air is charged with tension that itches at Stiles’ skin, and he finds himself scratching at his wrists while he waits for the water to boil. Erica sends him a small smile from the table, which he doesn’t return, but he does force himself to relax a little; Lydia is eyeing him suspiciously and he doesn’t want to deal with her right now.

  Stiles yanks the kettle off the stove just as it starts to whistle, and is immediately grateful for the lack of noise in the house. The pounding at his temples hasn’t stopped since he’d gone to bed, and an arguing pack would not have helped.

  He takes his tea and moves to sit at Lydia’s feet, leaning against her legs with his chin on her knee. She shifts to accommodate him, turning back to her book once he's settled. She starts combing through his hair with her fingers and he hums contently. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks Derek is watching him, but when he turns, Derek is immersed in a map.

  “Scott already left,” Lydia tells him quietly, expertly turning the page of her book with one hand. “He said his mom would skin him alive if he’s any later.

  “She would.” Snorting, Stiles relishes in the steam on his face as he blows on his tea. “So. Murder,” he yawns as he takes a sip.

  Isaac is the only one not actively doing something, so after a jerking nod from Derek, is the one to speak up. “It was a girl from town. Derek smelled another alpha on her, but not much else. It happened a few days ago.”

  “We also got a call from one of Derek’s old friends in New York.”

  Stiles perks up at that, waiting for Danny to go on. When he doesn’t, Stiles frowns. “Was it Wilfred or Annalee?”

  “Wilfred,” Jackson answers, closing his book and reaching across the table to pick up another. “He said that Laura left for Beacon Hills over two months ago, and hasn’t heard from her since.”

  Stiles immediately looks to Derek, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to the conversation; he doesn’t even look like he’s faking it. Stiles starts to chew the inside of his lip, only stopping when Lydia sighs inwardly down at him.

  “Could you not smell anything else about the alpha?”

   Danny shakes his head. “The body had been there too long; the decomposition covered anything else that might’ve been there.”

  “But you think this alpha has something to do with Laura being missing?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Stiles gnaws at the inside of his cheek in thought, hiding behind the lip of his mug until Lydia nudges him gently. “Stiles, what is it?”

  “You guys couldn’t smell anything at the Nemeton before, except for Laura. Now, suddenly, whoever it leaves a scent behind? That’s a little sloppy.”

  “‘Doesn’t mean they aren’t involved?” Isaac says hopefully.

  Hmming, Stiles looks down into his tea, watching the thistle flowers bob around in the hot water. “I don’t know, Isaac. Could... the alpha _be_  Laura?” Derek’s head shoots up, while Stiles continues. “I mean, I know it’s unusual for two alphas to come from a family, and you’ve never said anything, but she’s older than you. She’d have become alpha after the fire, right?” Derek nods uncertainly. “So it could be her.”

  “She’d never kill an innocent.”

  “Maybe whoever the body was, y’know, _wasn’t_? Maybe it was self-defense.”

  “It seemed more like slaughter,” Isaac muses, then shrinks away from Derek’s glare.

  “And that wouldn’t explain why she hasn’t come to the house, or contacted the Argents,” Lydia says.

  “No wolf in their right mind would go to the Argents,” Stiles argues back. “Especially a Hale.”

  “But still, why wouldn’t she come here?”

  Stiles scratches behind his ear, taking another large swallow of his tea. The pack falls silent, returning to their respective tasks. Isaac even picks up a book to make it look like he’s doing something.

  “We’ll find her, Der,” Stiles says sometime later, speaking over the lip of his mug.

  Derek watches him for a moment, then cautiously pats his head in thanks. Lydia snorts in amusement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised this two days ago, but seriously, I'm probably the flakiest person alive jfc. I plan on writing chapter 23 today after I get some homework done, and then 24 should be up tomorrow if everything goes my way. 
> 
> I mentioned a trip that I'll be on for two weeks, and I'm planning on writing up the four chapters for those before hand so I can still upload on time. Thank you guys so much for your patience with my whack schedule T*T
> 
> And god, I got some amazing comments the last few days and wow I feel a whole lot better than I have in a while and I can't thank you enough.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	23. Chapter 23 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 19th, 2011_
> 
> Something akin to joy fills Isaac’s chest. He yips and trots forward, past Derek, who doesn’t seem able to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhh I know I promised this one would be longer but holy hell I'm having so much trouble writing right now. Like, everything seems too jumpy and like it's going to fast and I'm not entirely sure how to get around that, so god, I hope this isn't horrible. (I actually had this written up yesterday, but with mobile issues, I wasn't able to upload. I have the next chapter for tomorrow, and will hopefully have the one after that typed by tonight. After that, I think I'm only behind one more?)
> 
> I've been in kind of a flop plot wise recently, what with my outline running out and knowing where I wanted the story to go but not how to get there. I think I've gotten it down p solid now, at least enough that I can stock up some chapters. And although I'm good on main plot, I'm actually running out of stuff for back stories. I have up to chapter 43, but after that, I'm a little stumped, so bear with me ^_^' I'm trying to come up with stuff that isn't repetitive and/or boring.

  For the record, Isaac said they should wait. Stiles had only been with them for a couple of months, and he’d been asleep for most of them; shifting in front of him so soon is a horrible idea.

  Derek disagrees, of course, wanting to get it out of the way as soon as possible. Erica thinks Derek wants to scare Stiles enough that he’ll go back home, but Isaac has been with Derek the longest; he knows Derek likes Stiles, even if he puts on the front of vague tolerance around the human.

  But this trust that Stiles won’t completely flip is not one Isaac shares with him. He’s barely healed, already jumpy as hell, and everytime he wakes, it’s from another nightmare. What’s he going to do when they just waltz into the room shifted? They don’t know who attacked Stiles before, but it could very well have been wolves, and they could just make it worse.

   But Derek insists, vehemently.

  The moon has just fully risen when Derek tells them to shift. Stiles is just in the other room, lounged out on the couch and groaning about how boring it’s going to be while they’re out on their run. Derek shakes his head in the direction of the living room, pulling off his shirt and folding it delicately.

  Isaac stands to the side, closest to the burnt-out sitting room. He watches Boyd help Erica with her bra, and he knows he’s only putting off the inevitable.

  But he _likes_  Stiles. The past couple of years with Derek have been great, and they’ve been safe, which is all Isaac could ask for, but ever since Stiles showed up, and recovered some, Isaac could say it’s been _fun_. He doesn’t remember much of Stiles before, but he’d always been funny, and now Isaac knows he smart as a whip with an attitude to match. Erica and Boyd are amazing and Isaac loves them, but they’re not exactly the most interesting people to banter with.

  Stiles is, and Isaac doesn’t want to lose that.

  Of course Stiles knows they’re wolves; it’s hard to forget who rescued him, and he knows they leave for a night every month, but seeing them shifted is a whole ‘nother story.

  “Isaac,” Derek says sternly,  Erica and Boyd shifting and shaking out their fur.

  Isaac makes his displeasure known with a glare, but strips off his shirt obligingly. Derek waits until he’s shifted as well to join him, and after a moment of hesitation at the threshold, he leads them into the living room.

  Stiles is right where they left him, sprawled out on the couch and looking boredly up at the ceiling. He drops his head to the side as he hears them enter, then quickly sits up, knocking his pillow to the floor. He looks more surprised than anything, but Isaac isn’t sure if he’d be able to smell his fear regardless, with stress running furrows under his skin.

  Isaac whines low in the back of his throat, dropping his tail between his legs. Erica, for all her fluff before, stands behind him, head hung low and ears back.

  Stiles watches them all for a moment, then looks to Derek. “What, do you want biscuits or something?”

  Something akin to joy fills Isaac’s chest. He yips and trots forward, past Derek, who doesn’t seem able to move. Stiles holds out a hand and waits until Isaac pushes his snout into it to touch his head. He grins.

  That’s all Erica and Boyd need to dart forward, tails wagging. “I am the wolf whisperer,” Stiles declares to the house, and ignores the gentle nip Isaac gives to his arm in retaliation.

  Erica is putting her head on Stiles’ knee when Isaac decides a pat to the head is not enough. He latches his teeth around the sleeve of Stiles’ borrowed hoodie and tugs at it until he stands up, face pulled in a confused pout. It takes another few tugs to get the human to sit on the floor in front of the couch, Stiles watching them all in wonder as they start flopping down around him.

  Derek still stands back, and Isaac feels sorry for ruining their plans of a run for only a moment, when he feels Derek’s happiness down the bond.

  Looking up at him, Isaac chuffs and wags his tail over the floor, looking at his alpha expectantly; pack cuddles are only cuddles when everyone is in on it. Derek eventually makes his way closer, and lays down near Stiles’ legs, but doesn’t touch him.

  With a whine, Isaac lays his head over Erica’s, where she’s set her own over Stiles’ thighs. Stiles seems to ignore it, watching Derek instead, guarding his pack, and Stiles almost looks disappointed, but then he snorts and leans his head back onto the couch behind him.

  “Sourwolf,” he mumbles.

  Mostly contented, Isaac lets himself fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, again, I'm so so so incredibly grateful for all of the support. Some of the comments the past week have been absolutely wonderful and I just thank you guys so much. 
> 
> If I make grammatical, formatting, plot, or chronology errors, please feel free to let me know! I want this story to be consistent and not difficult to read, so if you catch anything, please tell me. 
> 
> You're all so wonderful,
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Scott_ is missing,” Stiles growls. Derek doesn’t stick around for Deaton to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urrrgh sorry this one is shit. It happens too fast, and I have no idea what to do about it so ahh sorry.

  Stiles is drifting happily from his head’s perch on Lydia’s knee, empty mug still held in his hands. The pack has mellowed out around him, happy to sit in this silence. Derek searches something on his computer while Lydia is cross-referencing spells between two journals they’d nicked from Deaton.

  Isaac is trying to balance three pens on his upper lip as he leans back in his chair when he jerks and almost kicks Stiles. Jackson snorts at them, but Derek shushes him and focuses on something in the distance, frowning. “Deaton?”

  They hear the car come up the driveway, not speeding, but quickly and with a sense of purpose. Deaton slams open the front door in an uncharacteristic show of impatience, not bothering to close it behind himself. He walks into the room, mouth open and ready to launch into a tirade that the pack hasn’t seen since they’d tried to take on an alpha selkie without backup, but Stiles cuts him off before he can.

  “You really should knock; remember the last time you barged in?” he mumbles sleepily. Isaac hides a laugh, but Deaton doesn’t look amused.

  “Mr. Stilinski, this is a matter of utmost importance. As I was saying before, your spark is—”

  Another set of tires skid on the gravel outside, loud and urgent enough for Deaton to pause. Red and blue lights flash outside the windows as the car swerves to a stop, and Stiles is suddenly very much awake, stomach dropping.

  A car door slams shut, and John wastes no time in hurrying into the room. He looks around for a moment to find Stiles, face drawn and pale. “Scott is missing. Melissa hasn’t seen him since before he came here.”

  Stiles feels his world slip out from under him, having to take a moment to center himself before he scrambles to his feet, knocking his mug under the table in his haste. He catches Derek’s eye, who watches him with an unreadable expression. Derek’s gaze flicks over his face, brows furrowed, and Stiles really has to hand it to their non-verbal communication that that’s all Derek needs to order monotonously,

  “Shift.”

  There’s a great scraping noise as the pack push back their chairs and jump up, the wolves starting to strip. Stiles catches a glimpse of his dad’s somewhat horrified face at the spectacle on his way to the chest at the far side of the room. He doesn’t quite remember when they’d picked it up, just that you need to really kick it before it’ll open.

  He does just that and yanks up the lid, passing Lydia her saddle as she drops his shoes by his feet. Derek is already shifted when Stiles pulls out his own saddle, Derek’s wolf bending down so he can swing it onto his back. Out of the corner of his eye, Lydia is tacking up Jackson, who gives minimal protest for once. Stiles thinks it has everything to do with the fact that it’s Lydia, since he’d done everything he could to mess with Stiles when they’d tried to train him that Summer.

  Stiles grabs his bat as he mounts, tightening the leather grip on the handle. Usually, he brings gloves, but he doesn’t think he could navigate the stairs well enough to even make it to his room.

  Deaton looks up at him, face blank but with a tight pinch between his brows. “Mr. Stilinski, we really must speak—”

  “ _Scott_  is missing,” Stiles growls. Derek doesn’t stick around for Deaton to respond, leading the pack from the house and breaking into a sprint as soon as they clear the porch. Lydia swears behind them, not quite as use to riding as Stiles is, but they do not slow.

  As they cross the treeline into the forest, Stiles almost pulls Derek to a stop, as something knocks the breath out of his lungs, like Jackson had thrown him against a wall, like there were a vice locked around his ribcage.

  And they’re all looking to him for direction, like he’d know where Scott could have possibly gotten off to. Stiles grapples for some semblance of control, gasping for the breath that just doesn’t seem to come. That other bond gives a sharp yank deep under his ribs.

  He leans down over Derek’s neck, inhaling a short breath, just enough to mutter, “The Nemeton. Go to the Nemeton.” He doesn’t know why he thinks Scott could be there, but the words roll easily off his tongue, and it feels _right_  in a way he can’t explain.

  Derek hesitates, whining low in his throat and cocking his head just so that he can look up at him. But after a chuff of worry, he skids over the leaves to change direction, heading deep into the forest, where Stiles hasn’t dared to go before. The rest of the pack follows easily, Jackson speeding up so he’s almost neck-and-neck with Derek. Lydia leans over the gap to put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, but he shakes her off  with a shrug and a reassuring smile.

  Birds erupt from the trees as they pass, screaming indignantly and upsetting the squirrels that make their distaste known by throwing the tops of acorns down at them. Along with the din of the wolves’ big paws and panting breaths, Stiles closes his eyes against the noise. He twists his hands into Derek’s fur and leans even further into Derek’s neck, pushing away the unease and the nausea that builds behind his eyes.

  Isaac yips loudly, and Stiles jerks his head back up just in time to see a clearing approaching through the trees. And, oh christ, he feels sick, this is where they’d found him, he hasn’t been back since—

  The dizziness hits him soon after like a ton of bricks. Blearily, Stiles can see Scott, tied to what Stiles can only assume is the remains of the Nemeton.

  They’re not even at the edge of the clearing when they hear Scott cry, “Look out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for putting up with me T*T
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	25. Chapter 25 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _January 18th, 2012_  
> 
> Derek snorts, but then Stiles gets a light in his eyes that Derek knows can’t be good, like he’s realized something. And Derek knows what he’s thinking. “No, Stiles, don't—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh sorry for the delay on this one too. My grandma's been here all week so that's been wild. I'm just about caught up with my in-depth outlines, so I'll need some in between days to catch those up, so please bear with me ^_^'
> 
> EDIT 6/19/15: Fixed formatting errors. I'm so sorry for those!

  It had rained quite a bit in New York, Derek knows; more than most places. And it had been a nice respite from the constant storms of Beacon Hills, but he’d missed it. He’d missed the torrential showers more than anything, and as he watches the rain from the windows of his pack’s home, a sense of comfort settles into his bones.

  His betas are huddled on the couch, watching some PBS murder mystery on the newly-installed TV; it’s been plugged in for barely an hour, and the three teens are already glued to it. It had taken some serious puppy eyes from everyone, including Stiles, to get him to include an entertainment system in the “Great Hale Makeover” that Stiles had finally convinced him of. They’d only just finished renovating the living room enough to safely hook it up, and from the look of things, they won’t be getting much else done.

  Derek snorts through his nose from his place in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Isaac grumble and shove Erica’s socked feet out of his face. There is a distinct lack of Stiles, though, and with it, an itching under Derek’s skin, nagging at him to solve the problem.

  With a sigh, Derek pushes off the doorjamb and trains his ears to the heartbeats in the house. He picks up his betas’ immediately, followed by a couple of mice and a robin that had taken nest in the dilapidated roof of the second kitchen. He only picks up Stiles’ when he walks so far into the rubble that he can no longer hear the TV.

  Frown only deeping, Derek follows the sound to a part of the house he hasn’t been in since the fire, mostly occupied by his father’s vast library; he hadn’t even known the rooms were still accessible.

  But there’s Stiles in the first room, camped out on a torn cushion with over a dozen candles in jars dotting the floor around him. He seems to be reading several books at once, hunched over huge tomes and pocket-sized journals full of old hunters’ scribbles.

  He doesn’t seem to hear Derek approach, so absorbed that he continues to mutter to himself over the texts. A “that can’t be right” here, a “that’s fucking nasty” there. Looking over the human’s shoulder, Derek catches enough of a page to know he’s reading about vampires and their covens, how to kill them, how to become one. Pretty much anything one could want to know about them.

  Stiles continues to mutter quietly, eyes darting over the different pages erratically, until he loudly exclaims, “But why did they come after _me_?!” as he slams one of the journals closed.

  Derek’s mouth goes dry.

  Honestly, he feels pretty stupid; he should have known Stiles would blame himself for what happened to his dad. It took himself years to even begin to cope with the fire, he can only imagine what Stiles is going through so soon after the one-year anniversary.

  Derek watches Stiles’ hands dart over the books, fingertips sticking to the dry pages in his hurry to keep looking for answers. At least Derek had known why Kate had targeted his family; Stiles had nothing.

  It takes another few minutes for Derek to pluck up the courage to approach, gingerly making his way around the candles to Stiles’ side. The human tenses, hearing his approach, but doesn’t acknowledge his presence as the ‘wolf sits carefully next to him. He waits for Derek to speak.

  That takes some time too, Derek looking anywhere but the boy beside him.

  Finally, he musters enough control to say quietly, “There were twenty-eight people in the house when Kate set it on fire.” Stiles stops reading, but still doesn’t look up. “Almost everybody was living with us at the time, but some were. . . just there. I—” He clears his throat. “I was the one that told Kate. About them all being there, so she knew when to attack. She didn’t know Laura and I were out when she did it.”

  Stiles is watching him now, eyebrows furrowed, but expression unreadable. Derek avoids his eye. “I had a brother, you know,” Derek continues. “He’d be about Isaac’s age, I think. Pete. ‘Named after my mom’s brother, Peter. I had another sister too; Cora. She was about the same age as Peter’s daughter, Cory. All my dad’s brothers were there, a-and their parents, and it was my fault they all died that night.”

  Derek is barely finished when Stiles tackles him into a hug, almost forcing him sideways from the sheer surprise of the action. Stiles shoves his face into Derek’s shoulder with no sense of restraint, and Derek gets that overwhelming feeling of _pack_ , his wolf clawing at his insides to just bite Stiles and make the bond concrete.

  But it isn’t all that hard to reign it back, really, when Derek thinks of how truly fragile Stiles is. The human’s shoulders shake subtly, barely noticeable. Derek shuffles to hug him back, wrapping his arms around him as tight as he thinks Stiles can handle as a brittle-boned human.

  “This wasn’t your fault, Stiles,” he promises as Stiles sniffles into his shirt. “They’re calling it a terrorist attack in town; no one could have predicted that.”

  “You’re just a big teddy bear, aren’t you?” Stiles mumbles, pulling back to wipe his nose grossly on his sleeve. Derek snorts, but then Stiles gets a light in his eyes that Derek knows can’t be good, like he’s realized something.

  And Derek knows what he’s thinking. “No—”

  “Oh my god.”

  “No, Stiles, don’t—”

  “Derbear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say it all the time, and I'm sorry if it's getting annoying, but seriously, you guys are so great and so supportive and it's been amazing writing this with readers like you. Thank you so so so much.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hale snorts. “I need Derek’s assistance.”
> 
> “I’m not in their pack,” Scott tries to argue, but Hale lets out a horrible, harsh laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I missed a chapter or not last week, but I'm just gonna move on from here. So this is one of two for this week. The next one should be up in about four days; I apologize if time difference fucks with that.
> 
> I think I repeated a lot of words in this chapter, and didn't explain things nearly enough, but I really, really hope that doesn't take away from the reading; I'll try to fix it when I'm back home.

  Scott tries furtively to wriggle his hands free, the ropes cutting furrows into his wrists, because this Hale — Scott thinks he remembers seeing his face in the papers after the fire — ties some wicked-ass knots. Something dark and goopy keeps sticking his shirt to the stump behind him, and Scott can feel it clinging to his skin. He shivers.

  Hale stands a bit off to the side, leaning against the stump with a sense of ease, watching the surrounding forest with mild interest. He hasn’t said anything to Scott since he told him to stop yelling when he’d woken up, but he’s humming to himself languidly, which is almost more confusing than his choice of setting. Scott thinks he’s humming tiptoe through the tulips, but the thought makes him queasy, so he pushes it to the side.

  And not for the first time, Scott internally screams to know what’s going on. Hale had grabbed him on his way back home after he’d made Stiles was alright. He’d “borrowed” his mom’s car, and had almost made it back to it when Hale had stepped out of the shadows like the true creeper he is, and clapped a hand over his mouth; Scott thinks his mouth might actually bruise.

But Hale hasn’t spoken to him at all since he’d tied him there, and Scott is almost offended. Growing impatient, Scott stills. “What do you even want? I’m not a werewolf.”

  Hale snorts. “I need Derek’s assistance.”

  “I’m not in their pack,” Scott tries to argue, but Hale lets out a horrible, harsh laugh.

  He wrinkles his nose. “You reek of them, but even a newly-bitten beta would know you share no bond with Derek. Stilinski, however, _Stilinski_ , is your brother. And Derek is strangely fond of the boy. Very fond.”

Scott really doesn’t like the way he says that, starting to struggle again. Hale isn’t even concerned, ignoring his pitiful attempts at escape. Hale perks suddenly, staring hard at the surrounding forest. After a moment, he smiles slyly.

  He yanks off his shirt, and starts on his pants. Scott yells and yanks on the ropes, trying to get as far away from Hale as he can. Hale just looks at him, unamused.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says dryly. And what happens next, Scott can’t quite... describe.

Hale bends down, and his skin ripples. Pulls. Muscles stretch just beneath the surface, bones jut and snap, tearing at Hale until a wolf drops to its paws where he had stood a moment before. His lips are pulled back into a snarl, like it had been painful, and Scott can hardly find it in himself to doubt it.

Distantly, Scott hears rapid footsteps approaching the clearing, thundering over the forest floor. Something yips from out in the forest, and Hale gleefully shuffles his great paws on the leaves.

  Hale leaps towards the trees, and Scott has to crane his neck to keep him in his sights. Panic bubbling through his veins, and knowing it’s probably futile, Scott screams, “Look out!”

  Within a blink, Hale disappears, but Scott doesn’t have to wait very long before there’s an answering yell, and Hale is launched back through the trees. He manages stays airborne for a good five seconds before crashing into the stump a hairsbreadth away from where Scott is tied.

  The Hale pack makes a grand entrance of swarming into the clearing, Stiles astride Derek’s back at the lead. Hale recovers quickly and takes another charge at Derek; Stiles doesn’t hesitate to swing his bat soundly with both hands, whacking Hale across the face with enough force to knock him to the ground.

  But Scott see the agony across Stiles’ face before he even drops his bat, the weapon slipping from his hands to thud to the ground. A terrible sound leaves his chest, a rattling, empty thing that sends shivers up Scott’s spine.

  The rest of the pack leaps forward towards Hale, shielding their human while Derek falls back with a sound to rival Stiles’, the ‘wolf trying his best to get a good look at Stiles without letting him fall from his back.

  “Stiles!” Scott yells, straining against the ropes as his friend barely manages to stay in the saddle as he effectively passes out.

  Lydia hurries to join Derek at the edge of the trees, pulling Stiles upright, but it doesn’t do much when Stiles can’t keep himself that way. Even from here, Stiles can see how pale he is, truly white as a sheet, and Scott has the passing terror that Hale had somehow hurt him.

  He doesn’t look physically injured though, Lydia pulling him against her. She checks him over from her place on one of the other ‘wolf’s backs, in a saddle much like Stiles’.

  Scott is jerked out of his thoughts by another horrible yowl, the big brown ‘wolf throwing Hale back in Scott’s direction. He lands at Scott’s feet with a smack, fangs just a few inches from his trainers; he yanks his feet towards himself.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Scott knows the pack is rushing to help him, but Hale is close, too close. Scott can see the glint in his eyes, the shine of the setting sun on his teeth as he grins.

  Lydia is saying something to Derek, who’s got his tail between his legs and his ears flat against his head. And Scott wants to know what she’s saying, what’s wrong with Stiles, but Hale is getting his feet under himself again, and the pack is scattered in their concern for Stiles; the ‘wolf Scott is positive is Isaac is even simply standing in the middle of the clearing in his panic.

  Hale growls once, shortly, then dives. Scott knows he can’t move, can’t escape, but he still kicks at the ground in one last attempt to get away. The brown wolf is close, so close, not close enough as Hale latches his jaws around Scott’s arm and sinks in his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the encouraging comments, and likes, and bookmarks, and wow I wasn't expecting this to get even this much attention. Ahh, just thank you so much.
> 
> (If anyone was ever wondering about the slashes that sometimes replace Italics, it's a reminder for me since my copy/paste doesn't include text modifications like that. Sometimes I forget to fix them before I post the chapter.)
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	27. Chapter 27 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 13th, 2013_
> 
> “How did you know to do that?” Derek jerks his head towards the body and Lydia kneels beside him, turning him over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia will be the bane of my fucking existence. I'm so sorry for this chapter.

  Lydia will probably regret this later, but who else was going to go after him? No one in their right mind would chase a monster out into the depths of the preserve, and Lydia hasn’t been in her right mind for a long time.

  “Jackson!” she yells, and the shape in front of her skids to a stop, whipping around with enough force that his tail whacks into a nearby tree and splinters it. Bright yellow eyes look back at her, slitted and wide. “Jackson, it’s me, it’s—”

  Jackson lets out a screech that shakes her to her core and forces her back a step, but she does not run. She’d known something was horribly wrong during the lacrosse game, but this... Having your boyfriend turn into some kind of lizard is way beyond anything she had been expecting, or could deal with.

  “Jackson, please, it’s me. It’s Lydia.You know me, remember?”

  He doesn’t have time to answer, whether that would be with words or attack, when the sound of arguing voices drifts from the surrounding trees. And through the brambles to the side of them, _Stiles Stilinski_  walks out in all his undead glory, mid-argument with a very handsome man. The same Stiles Stilinski that Lydia had been sure was dead, had been for over a year.

  Stilinski halts in the middle of his sentence, looking between Lydia and Jackson several times. His companion looks just as surprised, but Lydia is sure he’s a Hale, surely he would have smelled—

  After a moment of confusion from all parties, before Lydia can tell them to run, Jackson lunges right for Stilinski, springing on pure, base-instinct.

  Hale howls viciously, shoving Stilinski behind himself and grabbing Jackson by the neck. He easily throws Jackson into a tree further into the forest, shattering said tree. Lydia makes to run after him, but Stilinski darts forward and grabs her, yanking her away from Hale. As if on cue, Hale makes another horrid sound and transforms.

  Lydia had known the Hales were ‘wolves — it was hard to miss in a town like theirs — but there is a huge difference between objectively knowing something and watching it happen, watching a man become a... thing. It isn’t all that different from watching Jackson do the same, to be honest.

  “What the hell is going on?” Stilinski demands as Hale leaps for Jackson. But Lydia chalks it up to the shock when she doesn’t answer, because on top of an already shitty night, the Stilinski boy is supposed to be _dead_ — and her boyfriend is a lizard— “Lydia!”

  “How do you know my name?” Normally so good at keeping her cool, Lydia kicks herself, because that is not the most important thing right now.

  “What’s going on with Jackson?” He looks over to check on Hale, who is throwing Jackson again.

  “He just... changed. After the lacrosse game. He was muttering something about a lizard, about control, but he wasn’t making any sense.”

  Stilinski gets a far-away look in his eyes, lost in thought. “Naga, Nuwa, Lamia,” he lists under his breath, watching Jackson and Hale fight over her shoulder. Lydia looks too, but she has no idea what he’s saying, nor how it relates to the fact Jackson is swinging his spiked tail right at Hale.

  “Derek, look out!” Stilinski screams and charges forward, pushing Lydia into the closest tree. He smashes into Jackson with enough force that he misses Derek completely, spikes sticking into the bark of an old rowan. Jackson gets a grip on Stilinski, and pitches him across the clearing, but it’s a poor attempt; he easily rolls back to his knees. “Derek, bite him!”

  Derek pauses in his charge to look at Stilinski like he’s completely lost it, ‘wolf-eyes wide and disbelieving. Stiles stares back with conviction, enough to convince Derek, it seems, as the wolf sprints back towards Jackson, who’s just barely got his tail unstuck from the tree. By some incredibly stroke of luck, Derek manages to plant a bite, digging his teeth deep into Jackson’s thigh.

  Lydia doesn’t know if it’s her, or Jackson screaming.

  Stilinski is hurrying back to her as Jackson falls to the ground, grabbing her again before she can make a break towards her fallen boyfriend, who is slowly turning back to human.

  Derek shifts back in one fluid movement, in all his naked glory. He runs over to them, and while Stiles doesn’t seem to be phased at all, Lydia has to force herself not to look.

  “Are you alright?” Derek asks, a bit out of breath. Stilinski holds up his hands, which are bleeding lightly.

  “Nothing too bad.” Lydia uses the chance to wriggle free and run to Jackson, pushing past Derek on her way.

  “How did you know to do that?” Derek jerks his head towards the body and Lydia kneels beside him, turning him over.

  Stilinski smiles sheepishly. “Uh, I kind of just hoped?”

  “Stiles, you won’t survive on just hope.”

  “But he’s a _kanima_ , Der. Werelizard. You can’t be a wolf and a lizard at the same time.”

  “There was no guarantee that it would even work, Stiles.”

  “We need to get him to a hospital,” Lydia interrupts, and Stiles looks affronted for a moment, but quickly recovers and eyes her like she’s lost it.

  “Are you nuts? They’d probably put him down. Derek, carry him back to the house.”

  Derek wrinkles his nose in insult. “I’m not carrying your lizard boyfriend.”

  “Derek, you are a fucking child. Carry him.”

  He growls, but relents, glaring at Stiles the entire way over to them. Lydia has never been more confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh just thank you guys so much. Everyone deserves readers like you.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So he’s allergic to the Nemeton?”
> 
> Deaton sends Isaac an unamused glare, but humors him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I didn't have smidgen of access to this last week, and we've been moving stuff around in my house this week, so I'll be doing my best to get four chapters up in the next few days. I think I'm almost out of outline, though, so we'll see.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your patience ^-^'
> 
> Sorry for the exposition of this chapter. I had no idea how else to get length.

Lydia is barely keeping Stiles on Derek’s back as they burst back into the house, Stiles slumped over Derek’s neck as if he’d gone completely boneless. Derek whines deep in his throat, and doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it, controlling his gait carefully so Stiles doesn’t fall.

  Deaton had seated himself at the table when the pack had gone after Scott, but he wastes no time in leaping up and hurrying across the room to help Lydia slide Stiles from the saddle. With an arm around each of their shoulders, Deaton helps her carry Stiles to the couch while the pack shifts behind them, scurrying around to find their respective clothes. Scott’s shoes hit the floor with a thump, dislodged from Danny’s back as he shifts back to human. Scott quickly moves off to the side.

  “What on earth happened?” Deaton demands, leant over Stiles and checking his dilation with a penlight.

  “Derek’s uncle has gone completely nuts,” Jackson says through the shirt he’s pulling over his head.

  “He bit Scott,” Danny adds as he yanks on his pants.

  Deaton looks to the resident human, who is clutching his arm and looking quite stricken as he stands against the nearest wall. With an inward sigh, Deaton pulls a roll of bandages and gauze from his bag and throws them across the room to Scott, barely managing to catch them. “There’s nothing for that now,” he muses.

  Having located his clothes faster than the rest of the pack, Derek moves quickly to Stiles, nails digging into his palms. And Stiles looks almost fine, Derek thinks, aside from an unusual pallor to his face, and the fact that he’s, well, unconscious. Lydia watches her alpha carefully, but says nothing when Derek stays a step away, as if scared to get too close.

  “And what of Mr. Stilinski?” Deaton is asking when Derek can pull himself back to the present, blinking.

  Lydia answers, “He passed out as soon as we reached the Nemeton. It was sudden—”

  “No, he was unsteady since we entered the forest,” Derek interrupts, without thinking. Lydia eyes him strangely, but she’s been doing that a lot since her return, so Derek pays her no mind.

  Deaton immediately takes a step back from the couch, rubbing his head in thought and looking both harried and thoughtful. With his lips tugged into a tight frown, Deaton considers the pack. “My friend in Los Angeles thinks that Mr. Stilinski is somehow connected to the Nemeton.”

  “Alan, he’s a Spark,” Lydia cuts in. “Sparks don’t use earthen magic.”

  “That’s precisely the point: he shouldn’t be. Witches, and Druids, can sometimes dabble in other forces, as you well know, Ms. Martin, while Sparks cannot. That Mr. Stilinski is connected in this way is disturbing the balance of power within himself.”

  “So he’s allergic to the Nemeton?”

  Deaton sends Isaac an unamused glare, but humors him. “I suppose you could say it that way, yes. Magic is push and pull, a delicate balance that the user is required to maintain. For some, that simply means using their magic less, others, more. A Spark’s power relies solely on belief. Belief is a completely unique form of power, no relation to the magic used by witches, or druids. While it is... _possible_  for a Spark to theoretically harness another power, I have never heard of it succeeding. Many die.”

  Derek feels himself blanch, but says nothing, dropping his gaze to his human, to Stiles that looks far from peaceful in his unconsciousness. At least he isn’t seizing, Derek supposes.

  “But Stiles didn’t try to harness anything,” Erica protests, coming forward with an angry tilt to her eyebrows. “He’s not stupid, Deaton.”

  “Of course not,” he agrees. “My friend believes he is connected to the Nemeton is ways we do not understand, or are likely to. I hardly believe any of this was Mr. Stilinski’s fault, nor any of ours. This is a problem that has probably gone back years.”

  Danny speaks up from where he has been quiet, perched on the arm of Stiles’ favorite chair. “Deaton, wouldn’t we have noticed it by now, then?”

  “Perhaps not. Whoever is tampering with the Nemeton has only been doing so recently.”

  Lydia smooths out Stiles’ bangs, chewing her lip. “And that’s what triggered this?”

  “It appears so.”

  “What can we do?”

  Derek swallows, watching Stiles’ eyelids twitch as if searching for something behind them, his breath hitching in his chest just once. The pack tenses at the sound, but it passes so quickly, none are quite sure if they heard it. They’re sure they heard Derek’s split-second whine.

  Deaton takes a seat in a nearby chair, tenting his fingers under his chin thoughtfully. He watches Stiles for a good minute or two, glancing up at Derek every now and then. “I believe he needs an anchor.”

  “Like a wolf?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lahey. Magic users rarely need anchors, as their power remains more or less in balance as they use it. However, those with higher levels of power, often witches who try to bite off more than they can chew, anchors can step in and help... funnel out the excess energy. I believe Mr. Stilinski’s powers are unbalanced, rather than clashing.”

  “Clashing?” Lydia asks, looking up from Stiles.

  “Hmm, yes.” Deaton rubs his chin. “The problem with Sparks is that other magics don’t mix with belief; oil and water. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case here. Mr. Stilinski’s powers just seem to be unbalanced, overflowing, as it were. And anchor would diffuse and channel out this power. If we do not find this anchor, I’m afraid Mr. Stilinski might not wake if this happens again.”

  Deaton looks right to Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I get settled in my new room, I should be back to consistent (or as consistent as I've ever been) updates. I finally figured out how I want to end this, so yippee. I also have a whole 'nother month that I didn't think I did before school starts, so I might actually finish it this Summer. We shall see.
> 
> Thank you guys so so so much. I really don't have words for it.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	29. Chapter 29 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _January 17th, 2012_
> 
> Stiles is thoughtful and quiet for all but a moment. “Do they get any special powers?”  
> “No, Stiles.”  
> “What? Like, nothing?” He looks affronted, insulted to his very core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the lack of length on the past few chapters. I've had to veer a little away from my outlines to explain everything, and even then, I'm barely getting seven hundred words. ^-^' It's gonna be a long fic, though, so I hope that makes up for it. 
> 
> I want another chapter up tomorrow, and then hopefully one up on Saturday, but my girlfriend is staying over so I'm not sure when I'll have time to type anything up. 
> 
> I also royally fucked up the last chapter. Half of that was supposed to be in chapter 30, and now I have to figure out what I'm going to do for that chapter, so it'll have to be sometime in the evening tomorrow that I have everything sorted. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your patience T*T It helps.

  “Derek. Derek, wake up.” Derek groans and swats at the offending voice that had woken him from his sleep. “Derek, rude. Wake up, you fatass.”

  With a low growl, Derek turns enough to look up at the owner of the voice, and Derek thanks his ‘wolf sight to even be able to see in the gloom of his bedroom. Stiles is leaning over him, wide eyed and curious in that exact way that Derek simultaneously loves and hates.

  The human doesn’t look like he’s slept yet.

  “What?” he grunts, dropping his head back onto his pillow and half-hoping Stiles will just leave him be.

  “What’s a Lupa?”

  “ _What_?”

  Stiles tugs at his shoulder until Derek is on his back, appropriating the edge of the bed as a perch so he can shove a fire-eaten book into his face. Derek pushes it back enough that he can read it, but the pages become too-burned halfway down for any hope of deciphering. He looks to Stiles with a raised eyebrow.

  Stiles launches into it so quickly he must have just been itching for Derek to give his permission. “I was reading about pack dynamics, since you’re oh so gloriously vague whenever I ask, and the betas know jacksquat, but the section on Lupas is completely burned out.” Derek sighs and looks to the clock on his nightstand, wanting to throttle Stiles, because it is _four in the morning_. On a _Tuesday_. “Derek, seriously, I need to know. It’s going to bug me for ages if I don’t.”

  Huffing lowly, Derek rubs at his eyes again, then sticks an arm behind his head, glaring up at Stiles. Pack cuddles were great and all, but Derek liked his room to be private, and while most of the betas respected that wish, Stiles _clearly doesn’t_. “They’re the alpha’s second in command.” He yawns widely, taking a moment before tacking on, “Sometimes they’re the alpha’s mate.”

  Stiles is thoughtful and quiet for all but a moment. “Do they get any special powers?”

  “No, Stiles.”

  “What? Like, nothing?” He looks affronted, insulted to his very core, and the pout to his lips might actually be a bit cute, if Derek hadn’t been up for fourteen straight hours thanks to Erica accidentally setting the stove on fire. Derek is _tired_  and Stiles looks no closer to sleep than he had been that afternoon. Of course, Stiles rarely slept a night through, and ignored all attempts to fix his wonky sleeping habits; Derek is sure they’ve tried everything and more. Usually, he’s glad Stiles devotes that extra time to something that’s actually useful, just not when it wakes him up at ass o’clock in the morning with a headache from all the smoke that had clung to everything the entirety of the day.

  “No,” he sighs. “They’re just who the pack trusts the most, alpha included.”

  “Are any of the betas your Lupa?”

  “We don’t have a Lupa.”

  Stiles frowns. “Why not?”

  “We’re not exactly a very big pack, Stiles. There’s been little need for one.” Derek looks over Stiles’ shoulder at the hallway, glad to see they hadn’t woken any of the other betas. “You’re all too young, anyway.”

  “What, is there like a coming of age, or something?” He puts his hand on the bed on the other side of Derek so he can lean back, flipping through the burned book as if that will really help.

  “No, but they’re all bitten. Recently, too.” Derek tries not to shrink away from Stiles’ arm. “It’s a huge responsibility, and none of them are ready for it.”

  Stiles hmms and continues searching the book for whatever other questions he has on the matter, using the feeble light from the moon out Derek’s window to read by. He pauses after a moment, chewing the inside of his lip thoughtfully, and Derek smells blood soon enough.

  He sighs inwardly. “Stiles.”

  “Not even Isaac? He’s been bitten years longer than Erica and Boyd.”

  Stiles has his mouth open to ask more questions, but Derek shoves him off the bed before he can get another word out, yelping as he tumbles to the floor. “Go to bed, Stiles,” he orders, knowing Stiles isn’t _too_  mad at him when he sticks out his tongue.

  “God, fine, be that way. You’re worse than Erica.” He huffs indignantly and trots out of the room, shooting Derek one last dirty look before closing the door behind him.

  Derek rolls over and goes back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the lateness of all of these. Once my room is settled, I'll have an actual routine and everything. T*T Thank you guys for sticking with me.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Derek, you absolute moron!” Lydia exclaims as something seems to dawn on Isaac, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short too, because I can't for the life of me add length? I'm feeling completely blocked outside of what I've put in my outlines, and it's driving me up the wall. I usually max out chapters around a thousand words, and this one is barely seven hundred? Like??? I don't know, it's proving quite difficult.

  Lydia is watching Derek thoughtfully, but he does his best to ignore her, glaring instead at Deaton, who won’t meet his eye now. He’s going through the motions of re explaining the entirety of what he’d just told them for a very confused-looking Isaac as he helps Scott bandage his arm, and for once doesn’t seem to mind that Isaac is a little slow on the uptake. Derek isn’t convinced.

  He drops his gaze after a moment, not sure if Deaton is ignoring him intentionally, and looks instead to Stiles. It’s a small comfort that he can see his chest still rise and fall; it all feels so temporary, this relative safety. Just waiting for the tipping point.

Finding an anchor as a ‘wolf is pretty simple, if you have a pack. The pack _becomes_  that anchor. ‘Wolves rarely have an individual as their anchor, since losing that person could be very dangerous to the ‘wolf, and it’s a huge responsibility on the anchor. Sometimes too huge. Derek knows it’s possible, that a few of his parents’ ‘wolves had anchors outside the pack, but it seems just the same level of risk for a Spark to have an anchor like that, especially when constantly surrounded by danger as he is. And Derek has no idea how a Spark would even find theirs. Is it their family? Would it still be the pack?

  He sends a quick glance at a pale Scott, nodding along with Deaton as if he actually understands what the vet is talking about. Perhaps a best friend?

  “How do we find his anchor?” Derek interrupts, not looking away from Stiles. Deaton stutters to a stop and looks up from his work to Derek, his gaze piercing at the alpha’s back.

  “What’s an anchor?” Scott tries to ask, but no one answers him; he shrinks back against the chair Deaton had sat him in.

  “Surely you haven’t forgotten what an anchor entails?” Deaton demands of Derek, expression infuriatingly blank.

  Derek snaps back, “Of course not. But he’s a human, not a ‘wolf—”

  “It isn’t all that different, Derek. They’re someone close to them, very close.”

  “Scott.” Derek is confident in that now, even though they’ve been separated for years; he’s never seen a friendship stronger than theirs.

  But Deaton doesn’t look convinced. “They stabilize them in times of emotional struggle.”

  “. . . Scott?”

  “They have a more profound bond with them than others in their life,” Deaton continues, standing and seeming entirely unamused. The pack looks just as confused as Derek feels, unsure why Deaton would be looking so unimpressed with him—

  “Derek, you absolute _moron!_ ” Lydia exclaims as something seems to dawn on Isaac, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open. Lydia is on her feet in a moment, jabbing a harsh, perfectly-manicured finger at Derek’s chest with a wild glint in her eye, forcing Derek back a step. “If you knew this entire time, so help me, Derek Hale—”

  “No, guys, seriously, what’s an anchor and what does it have to do with me?” Scott tries to butt in, but is ignored just as easily as before. Isaac moves forward, then thinks better of himself and stops.

  “Lydia—” he starts, but Lydia cuts him off to call him a myriad of unsavory things. Derek looks to Deaton for explanation as to why Lydia is mouthing off at him in a tirade he can barely keep track of. He’s sure his mother is mentioned once or twice.

  But Deaton is no help at all, watching them both silently as he leans against the arm of Scott’s chair. Isaac keeps opening his mouth as if to ask something, but he ends up closing it every time, and Derek is sure it has something to do with the fact that Lydia doesn’t seem anywhere close to stopping.

  “Of all the bull-headed shit you’ve ever pulled, Derek,” she’s saying, prodding at his chest hard enough to push his legs back against the couch. “I never actually thought you’d keep something like this from—”

  “Derek?” Stiles asks scratchily from behind them, rousing from where Derek’s leg is barely touching his hand.

  Lydia looks entirely too pleased with herself when Derek spins around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you for your patience, like jfc. Seriously.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	31. Chapter 31 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 2nd, 2014_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _To Note: This chapter follows the events of Chapter 9 within a couple of hours. I will be doing a Δ from Isaac's perspective during Chapter 9, as promised, where everything will be explained. Sorry if both this and Chapter 9 were too vague._
> 
> On that, I totally forgot Lydia said something in that chapter, and I need to address it, so some of my outline has to change a bit. I don't think I have to change anything in previously uploaded chapters.
> 
> EDIT: What the fuck was I thinking putting this chapter in June. Chapter 9 was in March and I?? Sorry.

  Derek loves his pack, Stiles knows. More than anything. Stiles would love to say he’d jump in front of a bullet for them, but Stiles has seen him actually do it, and it isn’t a pleasant experience.

  Point is, he’d do anything for his pack, in a heartbeat, but his room was pretty strictly off-limits. Most of their rooms are, but the betas have less care for privacy; Isaac and Erica rarely don’t invade Stiles’ bed in the middle of the night. Pack cuddles are great and everything, but Derek just doesn’t like the betas in his room; considering they’re all teens, Stiles isn’t surprised.

  But Derek ignores his own rule when they get back to the house. He leads the pack down the hall to his room without saying anything, his hand a vice around Stiles’ wrist. And Stiles lets him, doesn’t say anything when the pack crowds him to the bed; Derek doesn’t let him go the entire time.

  The pack is visibly shaken, pale, several of them quivering. Even Jackson hasn’t stopped touching him, hand fisted in his shirt as if scared he’ll suddenly disappear into thin air. Normally, Stiles ends up at the head of the bed with Isaac and Derek, but now, the pack coddles him to the center where they can all be touching him, packed in from all sides by the ‘wolves.

  Isaac has relinquished his normal spot at Stiles’ back to Jackson, so Isaac can curl under Stiles’ head, for which Stiles is grateful, considering all of the pillows have ended up on the floor. Jackson is pressing his face between Stiles’ shoulder, breathing in slow, measured breaths, intentionally regulating it. Stiles swallows thickly.

  Derek’s got his forehead pressed against Stiles’ throat, hand still clamped around his wrist, and Stiles would normally shake him off, but he’s pretty sure Derek’s fingers are trembling.

  Unlike most nights, they don’t fall asleep quickly, and Stiles can hardly blame them. When Danny had gotten him to where the pack had been, there had been nothing but a burned corpse, and his pack stricken with grief. They’d all but pounced on him, and while Stiles still has no idea what had happened, he can’t ask yet; Derek is shaking apart, and it can wait.

  Danny and Boyd are the first to drift off, laid out over his legs. Stiles manages to turn over onto his back, the arm tucked under him having fallen asleep. Derek and Jackson move with him, Jackson managing to wriggle under Stiles’ arm to hug his waist. Derek just shoves his face harder into his neck.

  Stiles knows there’s no way he’s gonna sleep with his pack, even after everyone else follows Danny’s lead. Derek is the last, he knows, taking hours on a normal night to relax. But Stiles feels the tension slowly drain out of him, and his heaving chest evens out in slumber.

  Choked by the stench of fire, and death, and his pack’s despair, Stiles stares up at the ceiling for hours after that. The sky goes dark and then starts lightening again, shadows cut across the ceiling through Derek’s curtains.

  Derek smells the worst, like the smoke had been inked into his skin, the smell of burned flesh. It brings up a fair few unpleasant memories for Stiles, so he can only imagine what it had done to Derek; Stiles has the hope the vamps had killed his dad before the fire had, but Derek doesn’t have that luxury.

  Funny, Stiles had never thought about their shared history, having both lost family like that. Stiles wonders if that’s why Derek took him in in the first place.

  It’s when Isaac snuggles in closer, mumbling something about sparkle pancakes into Stiles’ hair that he decides he should probably force a couple of hours of shut eye. Lydia will want a full story as soon as he’s up, and he can’t be falling asleep for that.

  He closes his eyes, but then Derek pulls him against himself completely, as close as they can possibly get with the other ‘wolves there. Stiles watches his pinched face, the minute expressions under features he’d like to think he knows pretty well.

  Stiles looks away, and shuts his eyes again, inhaling shakily with a whispered, “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on these ones too. Lot's of college stuff happened last week. I should just stop promising chapters ugh.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your patience T*T
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And that’s Derek?” Stiles’ voice comes out small, too small for someone usually so loud. Isaac winces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK IT 760 WORDS IS ENOUGH

  Derek steps back immediately, as if he’d been burned; he nearly trips over his feet in his haste to get away from the couch. He doesn’t go too far though, seemingly frozen a foot or so from Stiles, negating all attempt to to truly distance himself.

  Scott takes all of a second to leap up and tackle Stiles into a huge hug as soon as he’s sitting up, and Isaac has to grit his teeth. He wants to follow Scott’s lead, but Stiles looks too fragile, like a strong wind could blow him over; his face is devoid of color, his hands trembling from where they grip the couch cushions as Scott hugs him tightly.

  Lydia steps in before any of the ‘wolves can, easily pulling Scott off of Stiles and looking the picture of ease, but her knuckles are white. “Alan, what does Derek need to do?”

  Deaton stops giving Derek his ‘I Told You So’ face and turns instead to Lydia. Isaac watches Derek’s expression completely crumple in a way he hasn’t seen for years; not since Derek bit Erica and Boyd. The years between now and the fire have certainly helped, a sort of buffer, and Derek usually keeps his fear in check, buried under the surface. That he looks downright terrified now should mean a lot more to Deaton to warrant more than a pitying glance.

  “I’ll have to call around for the rituals, as they are quite rare,” Deaton begins as Isaac darts around everyone to get to Derek. He grabs Derek’s wrist carefully, hoping to offer some kind of comfort. Derek doesn’t move, but Isaac sees the barest hint of relief minutely sag his shoulders. “But that shouldn’t take too long. It won’t be too much work on your part, Derek.”

  “What won’t be?” Stiles asks confusedly, fingers twitching now that he’s let go of the couch; he instead grips his sleeves. He furrows his eyebrows at the vet, feigning his usual nonchalance, but none of the pack is fooled. Stiles knows it.

  Lydia sits Scott in a chair, a little more forcefully than she probably intended. “Derek is your anchor.”

  “He’s my anchor?” Stiles flicks his gaze to Derek, who jumps under Isaac’s hand. Stiles gives the smallest of flinches.

  Jackson scoffs, but glances warily between his alpha and Stiles. Isaac can feel his unease from here. “I’m not sure why you’re all so surprised.”

  “Why do I even have an anchor?”

  Deaton sits down again, crossing his ankles like he isn’t rending apart their carefully-constructed dynamics, built up over years. Scott is already throwing a wrench in it all; they don’t need Deaton making it worse. Isaac knows he shouldn’t blame Deaton, it’s hardly his fault that Stiles is having issues with a giant stump, but Deaton also seems to hardly care that Derek looks ready to bolt. “Yes, you have missed quite a bit. Mr. Stilinski, you are, for some reason or another, connected to the Nemeton. Enough so that its power is channeling to you, and causing imbalance. An anchor will regulate it.”

  “And that’s Derek?” Stiles’ voice comes out small, too small for someone usually so loud. Isaac winces.

  “You came to as soon as he touched you,” Deaton confirms, folding his hands. Danny inches forward towards Deaton, and Isaac is pleased to see he isn’t the only one ready to throw Deaton right out the door.

  “I was touching him when we were at the Nemeton. That didn’t seem to do too much.”

  “Derek’s wolf is not your anchor, he is. Were Derek human, he would likely still be. If Derek’s wolf were your anchor, that would make the rituals near impossible to complete.”

  “The what?” Derek asks quietly, finally managing to speak. Stiles’ eyes go to him immediately, but Derek resolutely ignores him. Isaac tightens his grip.

  “‘Wolves’ anchors work primarily through touch, yes? There are definitely other components, of course, but touch is the core of it. While there is an element of that in a Spark’s needs, and while Mr. Stilinski appears better—” He gestures to the human. “his magic is still unbalanced. I can get you the rituals, teach you how to perform them, but it has to be willing on both sides, or it won’t work.”

  Stiles looks to Derek, just as scared as Derek is, his expression devastated. “Derek—”

  Derek’s adam’s apple bobs once before he frees his wrist from Isaac and makes for the front door. The pack doesn’t move as they hear it slam behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I don't know how I got over a thousand words per chapter. I'm struggling here. The next one is probably going to be hella short 'cause I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Why did I think writing was what I wanted to do with my life.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	33. Chapter 33 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _December 25th, 2011_
> 
> “I did everything right,” he says, voice layered with disbelief and despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I'm a piece of shit. I made it to a thousand words this time, though?

  Sometimes, Derek is forced to realize he lives with a bunch of teenagers: when he walked in on Isaac watching porn. When Stiles’ voice started cracking at the most inopportune times. When Erica came to ask if ‘wolves still got periods.

  And something about teenagers is that they eat. A lot. Most of the time, Derek is just thankful the Hales had a large inheritance, since he seems to be making grocery trips almost biweekly. Erica is the only one of them that works, but Derek still isn’t exactly sure what it is she does; something involving ebay.

And he can’t just say no to his pups, hasn’t ever been able to, so when Isaac pulls his puppy face on Christmas morning, begging for ham, Derek finds himself at Fred Meyer’s and cursing the icy weather.

  Since the betas will probably send him out later that week anyway if he isn’t careful, he wanders the store and ticks off his mental grocery list, loading the cart for an army; it certainly earns him a couple of odd looks at checkout, but the manager recognizes him, and that makes it a little less awkward. But only a little. The pack still doesn’t come into town all that often, and they’ve been a little preoccupied with keeping Stiles a secret, so the Fred Meyer’s on the very outskirts of town had become somewhat of a safe-haven for them; Stiles still hasn’t braved it, but Derek thinks they’re getting there.

  Beacon Hills, though pretty much always cold, had been hit hard this Winter, a cold front coming down from Alaska at the beginning of October. Most of the residents don’t trust their driving, haven’t for months, so the roads are clear when Derek pulls out of the parking lot. He’s infinitely grateful for his ‘wolf instincts when he has to swerve three different times to avoid black ice.

  Really, he should have known something was up when he’d left that morning. Even Boyd, the one who usually sticks up for him when the other betas become too demanding, had been prompting him out of the house. Isaac hadn’t been lying when he said he wanted ham, that much Derek is sure of, but Stiles hadn’t even been in the room when he’d asked, which should have been a red flag; they all know Stiles can’t lie for shit.

  By the time he pulls up in front of the house, Derek has an itching under his skin and his wolf growls with unease. He’s not too worried as to leave the groceries in the car, however, easily carting the eight or so bags to the porch, but he takes the steps two at a time and unlocks the door quickly.

  Sure enough, as soon as he enters the living room, he wonders if he shouldn’t have left.

  The workings of a surprise party lay like carnage all over the couches and table, half-heated streamers hung from the ceiling, trodden-on party hats littering the floor. There are partially-wrapped presents all over the coffee table, the Christmas gifts from this morning off to the side so as not to get confused; Derek is pretty sure he spies doggie-bags, and fully blames Stiles. Without a doubt.

  And there’s the stench of smoke to the air, acridly curling at the back of Derek’s throat. It isn’t burning flesh, though, or fear, or panic. Just... burned sugar.

  He sets the bags in the entryway and kicks the door shut behind himself, before slowly making his way towards the kitchen. He knows, even from here, that all of his betas are in there, and all of them are _laughing_.

  Derek stands next to the island, completely dumbfounded at the sight before him. Stiles is bent over the open oven, expression distraught as he looks down at the blackened husk of what appears to have been an attempted cake. Derek is pretty sure Stiles had put the icing on before baking it — how he’d managed it, Derek doesn’t want to know.

  Erica and Isaac are cackling at Stiles’ distress, clinging to one another like they’d been laughing for some time. Boyd stands just behind them, grinning widely as he leans against the counter.

  He’s the first to notice Derek, looking up, and not even his surprise to see his alpha can stifle his amusement. Isaac and Erica sober pretty quickly upon seeing him, but not enough to stop their grinning.

  Stiles looks up from his failure (and Derek is sure it was Stiles’), expression completely miserable. “I did everything right,” he says, voice layered with disbelief and despair. “I followed the recipe exactly, I swear—”

  And Jesus Christ, Derek can’t hold it back anymore: he laughs. Loudly. Stiles startles into silence, still bent over like this is the first time he’s heard Derek laugh. It can’t be, he’s been living with them for over a year now, but the thought almost entirely quells his mirth; he can’t be a very good alpha if his pack thinks he’s serious all the time.

  “Is this a surprise party?” he asks instead, smiling.

  Stiles clears his throat while Isaac and Erica snicker to each other. “Yeah, it was supposed to be. ‘Would have been too, if, y’know.” He gestures at the cake. Derek holds back another snort.

  “Did they tell you how hard it is to throw a surprise party for ‘wolves?” Nodding at his betas, he moves closer to inspect the cake, and yep, Stiles iced it before putting it in the oven. Surely he didn’t think that’s how cakes work.

  “Yeah, but they also said you never do anything for your birthday, and I thought maybe it’s been so long that you wouldn’t be expecting it.”

  “Well, you were right. I wasn’t. But doggie bags? Really, Stiles?”

  The human grins sheepishly, and Derek has to push down the happy feeling that rises his stomach. He decides he should probably give Stiles his dad’s recovered badge.

  Which of course has no relation to the gratitude he’s feeling. None.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, seriously, I'm so sorry for my delay. Rough week last week, and then like no excuse. I'm so sorry T^T
> 
> Thank you guys so much for sticking up with me and supporting me and I'm really not sure what I did to deserve that.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek looks at him like he’s nuts, and in his defense, Isaac doesn’t know what he’s talking about either, but considering that none of them know what’s going on, Isaac thinks they should try everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh, I'm actually so sorry. I absolutely hate how this chapter came out, but I'll never get it up if I keep looking at it. I hope it isn't too glaring how fast and jumpy it is.

  Derek hasn’t strayed far from the house when Isaac finds him, simply sat on the edge of the porch with his legs through the gaps in the banister. Stiles is usually the one to describe them all as pups, but Isaac has to agree Derek has never looked more like a kicked puppy, hunched over on himself with his head leant against one of the supports and looking quite sorry for himself.

  And Isaac has been with Derek for almost six years now, longer than the other betas, and he knows that getting Derek to talk will probably do jackshit. So Isaac just joins him on the porch and leans against the banister with him.

  And he starts talking at him in the hopes to calm him down, about anything that comes to mind, really. He tells him about his mom’s favorite flowers, and the stupid videogame Stiles has him hooked on now. He tells Derek that Boyd secretly gets up at four in the morning for a bowl of cereal, and Erica drinks straight from the carton when she thinks no one is looking.

  “Has Stiles told you about the pet mouse he kept for three months last Spring? I didn’t even smell i—”

  “Peter was the only one in the pack to have a human anchor.”

  Isaac quickly cuts himself off and looks down at Derek, more than a little pleased with himself; he doubts even Stiles could have gotten Derek talking that fast. “So?”

  “It’s dangerous to put all of that responsibility on one person. Pack is safe; unless they all die, or if they kick you out, there’s always someone more, and the bond is always there.” Derek inhales slowly. “Peter’s daughter was in the fire with everyone else; the reason he’s like this... he’s feral. On top of being an omega with no pack, he has no anchor.”

  Isaac rubs a hand over his chin, hmming. “Deaton didn’t say that Stiles was _your_  anchor, Derek.” (Though he wouldn’t be surprised.)

  “No, that’s not—” Derek looks up at him, close enough to a pout that Isaac feels alright snorting. “What I mean is— I throw myself around too much. I’m a horrible fighter, I’d rather go after a threat myself than endanger the betas—”

  Isaac kicks his side gently. “Too bad.” Derek shuts up, pursing his lips. “Maybe you need to stop being a self-sacrificing bastard? Stiles needs you, and we all sure as hell need Stiles. So man up, asshole.”

  His alpha is quiet for a moment, studying his hands closely. Then, he simply nods. “You’re right,” he sighs.

  “Of course I am; I’m always right. Now, c’mon, Stiles is probably freaking out.” Isaac helps him to his feet, giving him an awkward pat on the shoulder. They know Stiles is just more or less confused right now, but a look of steely determination crosses Derek’s face, so Isaac counts it as a win.

  Just as they’re pushing open the door, Isaac halfway through announcing that Derek’s got his head out of his ass, the heartbeats in the room skyrocket. Something cracks loudly, and the unfamiliar growl that follows nearly forces Isaac to shift on the spot, but he forces down his wolf until he and Derek run into the living room.

  Stiles is shoving Deaton behind himself, the pack surrounding him while Scott is... standing over the remains of Stiles’ favorite chair, and looking like... Isaac doesn’t even know. He’s definitely still bipedal, but he’s got claws and fangs, and something is definitely going on with his cheeks.

  Erica and Boyd are shifted, Danny and Jackson safely behind them, but still human, looking quite torn between the will to shift and not wanting to freak Scott out more. Derek takes one look at Stiles before jumping forward towards Scott, grabbing him by the tattered remains of his shirt and forcing him back up to the wall. An unfortunate picture gets knocked to the floor, the glass shattering.

  Derek growls loudly, louder than Scott seems to be able, and flashes his eyes. He can barely keep Scott against the wall with all of his thrashing, claws digging furrows into Derek’s arms; Derek, to his credit, barely flinches.

  Stiles makes a sound like nothing Isaac has ever heard, pushing past the rest of the pack. Jackson makes a grab for his arm, and Erica growls warningly at him, but Stiles ignores them both, quickly crossing the room to Derek. Derek snarls at him over his shoulder to get back as Isaac makes a move towards them, both halting abruptly.

  But unlike Isaac’s unease, Stiles stops only to give Derek his “Really, Der?” look, then takes the last few steps to them. Scott growls, swinging a clawed hand at him, but Stiles wisely stays out of reach.

  “Stiles, what the hell are you doing?” Derek demands, voice rough.

  “Growling at him isn’t going to do anything.” Derek looks at him like he’s nuts, and in his defense, Isaac doesn’t know what he’s talking about either, but considering that none of them know what’s going on, Isaac thinks they should try everything.

  Flinching only a little when Scott makes another lunge at him, Stiles gets as close as he can without having his face clawed off. The pack inhales as one. “Scott, buddy, it’s me.” Scott growls louder, and Derek has to brace his feet against the floor to keep him back. “Scott, just focus on—”

  Scott swings and misses, instead digging his claws into Derek’s shoulder. Blood spatters onto Stiles face, and the pack watches him freeze; even Scott stills in surprise. Stiles’ throat bobs once, shoulders rising in a quick breath. Derek’s eyes don’t leave him, Stiles moving around Derek’s arm to get closer to Scott.

  And tickle him.

  Scott lets out a high-pitched, screeching yelp and jerks away from his hands. The tension in the room breaks as Scott’s claws and fangs disappear like they hadn’t been there in the first place, leaving a very-human Scott trying to wriggle away from Stiles. Derek, after seeming to decide that the danger has passed, steps back and releases Scott.

  Stiles catches his friend and hugs him tightly, Scott looking ready to shake apart as soon as Stiles stops tickling him. Derek stands just behind them, ever watchful as they sink to the floor, Scott’s bloody hands knotting in the back of Stiles’ shirt.

  Erica and Boyd cautiously shift back, yanking on their clothes. Stiles looks up at Derek. “You alright?” he asks quietly.

  Derek shrugs, showing his bloody arms that are already stitching themselves back together. “You?”

  “I’m good.” Stiles looks back to Scott, who refuses to raise his head as his shoulders shake. “Yeah, I’m good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some really nice messages during my last impromptu hiatus and just thank you? It makes dealing with difficult chapters worth it.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	35. Chapter 35 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _February 3rd, 2012_
> 
> Stiles looks at the porch from under Isaac and grins upside-down at Derek, all teeth and flushed cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually surprised I got over a thousand words on this one? I only had ideas for about a page and now?? I'm kind of happy with this??? What is life.
> 
> EDIT: Fixed some formatting errors; sorry about those!

  “He’ll need training.”

  Derek sighs. “I know.”

  “It could be very dangerous for him to remain simply as he is.”

  “And you’ll train him?

  “That is one possibility.”

  It’s a mild day for February, the frost melting by noon, and the pack had taken full advantage of it. Derek and Alan watch the betas run around the front yard, tackling each other with reckless abandon; Stiles is even holding his own pretty well against Isaac and Erica. Derek is pleased to see that making Stiles train with them had been a good idea.

  Derek runs a hand through his hair and puts his elbows onto the banister as Erica trips Isaac’s legs out from under him. “What are the other options?”

  “I have a friend outside of Orange County that would be willing to take hi—”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  Stiles lets out a battle cry as he tackles Isaac to the ground, Erica whooping encouragingly. It’s still rather chilly, but the betas have stripped down to their t-shirts, sweaters and coats abandoned at the foot of the porch steps; Derek will gripe about the grass stains later.

  “Derek?”

  “Sorry.” He straightens and turns away to lean against one of the columns holding the roof up, newly installed and painted. “You were saying?”

  “It would be very easy for me to train him during my off hours at the clinic, however...”

  “You think he doesn’t want to go into town.” It isn’t a question; Derek knows Stiles would rather face a kappa again than brave even setting foot in town proper. Stiles, once hearing Alan would be visiting to talk about his Spark, had quietly asked that he not be made to train at the clinic. Isaac had yanked him off the couch for an impromptu cuddle session soon after, so Derek isn’t sure if he’d actually answered Stiles, but he’d made up his mind as soon as he’d smelled Stiles’ panic.

“I won’t claim to understand his aversion, but I believe being in that environment would hinder his training.”

“So what do you suggest?” Derek looks over his shoulder just in time to see Erica start to tickle Stiles relentlessly, the human screeching indignantly.

“You could hire a Druid from outside of town, to be a tutor of sorts, as I am unable to make the trip up here so often myself. But, I think the easiest option is to simplest have him train himself.”

Looking back to the vet, Derek raises an eyebrow. “He can do that?”

“I don’t see why not. It is unusual for a Spark to not be given formal training, but I think, under the circumstances, this would be best. I can bring up the necessary books and materials next week.”

Derek nods slowly, wondering if Stiles would be able to focus long enough for the proper training. Probably not, but it would be better than calling a stranger into their home; the house is just starting to be theirs. Derek would like to keep it that way.

Alan nods as well, seemingly satisfied. “I will help him where I can, visit if the problem is being especially difficult.”

“Thank you, Alan.”

  Alan waves him off, and he might even smile a little bit. They fall into silence, turned back towards the betas and, yeah, the grass stains are going to be a bitch to get out. Stiles screeches again when Isaac tackles him, making sure to cushion their fall with his arm so he doesn’t crush their resident human. Stiles looks at the porch from under Isaac and grins upside-down at Derek, all teeth and flushed cheeks.

  He smiles back, but he doesn’t know if Stiles catches it before Erica joins them on the ground, their tussle devolving into mindless wrestling.

  “Have you talked to him about becoming your emissary?”

  Derek snaps his head to look at him. “Alan, he’s sixteen.”

  “Never too early to start training,” Alan says, shrugging. “Have you told him about it?”

  With a short, soft growl, Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “When I taught him pack dynamics.”

  “Did he express interest in it?”

  “No,” he grits out, a strange itching under his skin.

  “Did you directly ask him—”

  “No, I didn’t. Because he’s _sixteen_. I read too, Deaton: most emissaries are your age. Do you really believe Stiles would stay focused that long? And aren’t most emissaries Druids? Stiles is a Spark.”

  “Sparks can make the most powerf—”

  “Derek!” Isaac interrupts, the pack grabbing their jackets and stomping up the steps. “Erica wants pancakes for dinner, but Stiles doesn’t want to cook.” Stiles nods in agreement, while Erica whines behind them. She hands her jacket to Boyd, who takes it without complaint.

  “I vote pizza,” Boyd offers, getting a bit of grass out of Erica’s hair.

  “We had pizza yesterday,” Stiles argues. “Chinese.”

  Isaac groans. “Ew, no, we got food poisoning the last time we had take out.”

  Derek watches them, aghast, and wonders if they knew how heavy the conversation had turned; he was pretty sure the betas had been too far away to distinctly hear anything. “There’s macaroni in the cabinet; Stiles you are not allowed to make it,” he says without thinking, Isaac letting out a whoop and charging into the house. Erica and Boyd quickly follow.

  Stiles pauses like he’s going to ask what they’d decided, but closes his mouth after a moment and follows the ‘wolves through the door. Derek waits until he hears them dicking around in the kitchen to turn to Alan.

  “He’s too young. Thank you, Alan, but we’ll figure out an emissary later.”

  Alan holds up his hands in surrender, though Derek can tell he doesn’t agree. “I’ll teach Stiles some basic spells to help protect the house, which an emissary would normally perform—”

  “There’s no reason to guilt trip.”

  “Derek, packs rarely go without an emissary for more than a couple of months. You’ve been without one since the fire; doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Not right now, no. We haven’t had any problems with it before, and the pack will grow.”

  “Do you plan on biting more minors without anywhere else to go?”

  Derek growls, fully now, and Deaton backs up a step, knowing he’s crossed a line. “Thank you for coming out, Alan. Excuse me while I make sure my pack isn’t blowing up the kitchen.” He pushes off the column and follows his pack inside, trusting Alan can find the way to his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about all the delays and hiatuses, I literally have no excuse. I'm doing nothing with my life right now. Nothing. I'm almost caught up on this, though, so maybe it'll be easier for me to be consistent.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, I definitely have an answer to that,” Stiles snaps back. “Everything makes sense to me and nothing is a mystery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronology has been fixed and updated, in the specific chapters and in the series description. So sorry about those! I'll pay more attention to those in the future.
> 
> This chapter's a short one as well, 'cause I changed stuff in the last one T*T I'm also trying a new outlining method and it's been helping me with length, but I can't seem to get anything else out in this one. Sorry!

  If the pack finds it odd that Derek is standing but a few inches from where Stiles is seated on the couch, none of them mention it. Alan is across the room, making Scott drink some kind of horrible-smelling tea that makes Derek’s nose itch while Lydia paces the hallway, on the phone with a friend of Alan’s. From here, Derek knows they’re talking about the Nemeton, but it’s a bunch of magical jargon that he won’t even pretend to understand.

  “So,” Stiles starts. “does anyone what to explain what the hell kind of shift that was?” He looks to Derek first, but he’s just as confused and curious as the pack; he’d never seen anything like it.

  “That would be because the bite hasn’t settled yet,” Alan says, glaring at Scott until he takes another swallow.

  “What does that even mean? This didn’t happen to any of the other betas.”

  “A large part of that is because they asked for it; even Mr. Māhealani had expressed that he’d be willing to take the bite, should it come to that. Am I correct?” Danny nods. “The other part has to do with the fact pack was more or less decided from the get-go with the other betas; not only was Mr. McCall bitten by an unrelated beta, but apart from Mr. Stilinski, he has no connection to any of you. Pack is an unknown concept.”

  “And I don’t want to be that maniac’s beta,” Scott cuts in determinedly, before Alan makes him drink more of the tea.

  “Yes, that will certainly have weight in your unsettled shift.”

  “What about being Derek’s?” Stiles sits up a little more, ignoring the quick look of surprise Derek sends him. “I mean, it’s not like there’s a whole lot of choice.”

  “Do I have to be anyone’s beta?”

  “Being simply an omega is rather dangerous, but it is possible. You can always change your mind later and become part of Derek, or another alpha’s, pack.”

  Scott glances quickly at Derek and pales a little. “I’d like to try that for a bit,” he says, voice tight; Stiles’ face falls.

  But he clears his throat and nods. “We’ll need to find you an anchor in the meantime, then, I guess. I can teach you how to be a ‘wolf and stuff.” Scott smiles a little at him. Derek quels the uneasy jealousy he feels; that’s something to look into later, he decides.

  “Great!” Lydia says scathingly, striding through the doorway. “Now that that’s decided, Rachel might know what’s going on with the Nemeton.” The pack perks up, and Alan raises an eyebrow in surprise.

  “I believe I mentioned you should have called Antony Bl—”

  “Well, I called Rachel. She thinks she knows why they’d need Laura for whatever they’re doing.” She takes a seat primly, fiddling with the phone in her hands. “She says it’s definitely blood magic, but since, y’know, vampires don’t have that luxury, they needed another powerful magical being.”

  Stiles frowns. “And because Laura is a born alpha...”

  “She’s the perfect candidate,” Lydia nods. “Stiles, you’re probably twice as powerful as Laura, but since you have a pack to protect you, an alpha traveling alone would have been an easy target.”

  Alan rocks up to his feet, rubbing a hand over his face. “But if they have what they need, why isn’t the ritual working?”

  Lydia shrugs and shakes her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. Rachel didn’t know, but she said maybe they’re missing other ingredient?”

  “I don’t think so.” Stiles voice is small when he speaks, drawing the attention of the pack. “It feels like it keeps getting stopped right after the first step. Like they’re using the wrong blood.”

  “Stiles, that doesn’t make any sense. Laura should work better than most.”

  “Yes, I definitely have an answer to that,” Stiles snaps back. “Everything makes sense to me and nothing is a mystery.”

  “Stiles,” sighs Derek, Stiles promptly shutting up and slouching on the couch.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  Derek looks up to Lydia and Alan expectantly. “What now, then?”

  “Well, we have to deal with Peter,” Stiles offers helpfully, face smushed against the hand he’s leaning in. “He’s probably easier to find than these vamps.”

  Alan nods in agreement. “And perhaps he knows more than we do. Mr. McCall, Peter did mention Laura, didn’t he?”

  But Scott shakes his head. “Nope. He just said he needed Derek’s help with something.”

  “It must be important if he feels the need to kidnap to get Derek to help.”

  “No, he’s feral,” Derek interrupts. “‘Literally isn’t in full control of himself. He probably honestly thought kidnapping Scott would make me want to help him.”

  “How do you know he’s feral?” Lydia inquiries suspiciously, and, truthfully, Derek doesn’t want to explain it, can still feel his worry about the whole thing itching under his skin, and he’s starting to feel a bit queasy—

  Stiles’ hand flies up and latches onto his arm, making him jump. Looking down at him, Stiles has gone pale again, and the hand around his forearm is white-knuckled. “Derek,” he says breathlessly. “the Nemeton—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a couple of new comments in my email, but they're not showing up in my inbox on here, so I'm not sure what that means. I'm going through my email again to respond to them so I'm sorry if it's been a bit since you put them up! I'm getting to them, I promise.
> 
> Thank you guys so much,  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	37. Chapter 37 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 1st, 2012_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline is fixed, and chapter 36 is updated with the actual chapter now. Hahahahahahah fuck everything there's a continuity error in this that'll take way too long to untangle, and no one's mentioned it yet so hopefully it isn't noticeable. I'll fix it in the rewrite, I promise but I honestly can't handle trying to do it now. Ignorance is bliss.
> 
> Also fuck this chapter. This is not the tone I wanted from it at all and I have no idea what I'm doing please ignore me I'm so sorry. This isn't even five hundred words heaven save me.
> 
> (*whispers* But I'm caught up now. Finally. Sorry.)

  Stiles watches Derek out of the corner of his eye, and wonders if he’s just really good at hiding his emotions. He’s been with them a little over a year, but he’d like to think he has a better grasp on the pack’s emotions than they’d expect him to.

  But it’s the anniversary of the Hale Fire, and Derek is _smiling_  as he divvies out pizza in their shiny new kitchen, and Stiles has no idea why. _And_  he’d gone to Stiles’ favorite parlor, even though he hates the sauce.

  Distantly, Stiles hears Erica and Isaac arguing over the TV remote while Boyd tries to play peacemaker. When they get out to the living room with the food, Stiles knows Derek will easily take the remote from Isaac and put on some boring documentary just to fuck with them, but now, Derek is just looking really at peace with the world even as he licks sauce that he’d called “detestable” from his finger.

  He might even be humming to himself, the scandal.

  Stiles has never had the best brain-to-mouth filter, ever, so it really shouldn’t be surprised when he blurts, “Didn’t Kate, like, masacre your family today.”

  Derek blinks in surprise and looks up, like it hadn’t even dawned on him. He checks the calendar by the fridge, frowning a little bit. “Yeah. I didn’t realize what today was.”

  “Oh.” Now Stiles really feels like shit. Way to go, Stiles. A++. 10/10. “Sorry.”

  Derek gives a small shrug and puts two slices of Hawaiian on a plate for Isaac. “It’s alright. I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “Sorry to, like, bring it up, then.”

  “Stiles, it’s fine. Can you get the parmesan from the fridge?”

  With a short swallow, Stiles nods and retrieves the freshly-shaved cheese, setting it at Derek’s elbow. And because someone somewhere up high hates him, Stiles asks, “Who even was Kate?” without thinking.

  With a sigh, Derek pauses his endeavor to get everyone dinner and puts down the pizza cutter. He leans his hands on the counter, drumming his fingers on the tile as he looks at the stack of cardboard boxes beneath him. It’s a thoughtful sort of silence, though, so Stiles doesn’t think he’s mad at him for asking, but the air is still a little tense and Stiles wants nothing more than to skedaddle the fuck out of there.

  Stiles clears his throat and starts loading the plates onto the tray Erica had bought Derek for Christmas, eager to leave. But then Derek says softly,

  “I thought I loved her.”

  And it makes Stiles stop, because, wow, he’s never heard anything so... “Sorry,” he mumbles, then smiles a little and bumps his shoulder into Derek’s. Stiles has been there before; granted, Lydia didn’t burn down his house and kill his family, but he still knows the feeling.

  Derek smiles a little bit back, and Stiles thinks they’re gonna be alright.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Laura’s scent was fresh,” Isaac mumbles against the top of Stiles’ head. “and there were definitely vamps there, but—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I had Deaton’s PoV in the past, I referred to everyone by their last names, and while I originally intended to do that for this chapter, it was way too much work, and it read really weird, so everyone’s by first names.

  Watching Stiles pace around the living room, blatantly ignoring his attempts to teach him the proper rituals, Alan wonders why he ever thought Stiles could go through formal training. Of course he had been aware of Stiles ADHD, but without a guardian to sign for a prescription, he reckons it’s been hard the past couple of years to get his Adderall; he makes a mental note to ask about that later. Even as a vet, he has some sway with the local pharmacist.

  Stiles starts snapping his fingers in agitation and Alan thinks he doesn’t even realize he’s leaving a trail of sparks every time he does. Alan will allow this for now, knowing it probably can’t be helped under the circumstances, but Stiles really should learn to control himself better; Alan had hoped he’d have learned that by now.

  “They should be back by now,” Stiles mutters, running a power-charged hand through his hair; it sticks up even worse than normal, several locks pointing straight into the air.

  “I’m sure they will be fine.”

  “After everything that’s happened the past few days, you think?” He sends Alan a look with one eyebrow raised. Alan looks back, unamused.

  Before Stiles can launch into a counter attack, he freezes in place only to turn to the door as the pack makes their way into the house, the ‘wolves grabbing clothes on their way in. Despite having been close to the Hale pack before the fire, quite use to the casual nudity expressed between the ‘wolves, it is still rather alarming sometimes seeing half a dozen teens flooding the living room in various states of undress.

  Anger crackles through the air, Derek not even bothering to hide the deep furrow of his eyebrows. As soon as he’s dressed, the alpha makes his way quickly to Stiles and appropriates his shoulder, burying his face there. The rest of the pack soon follows suit, swarming Stiles and latching onto him as best they can.

  Alan wonders not for the first time if the Hale pack dynamic is entirely... usual. Granted, anything that involves Derek is going to have an odd spin, and a pack of teenagers is unusual in it of itself, but in Alan’s experience, the center of the pack is the alpha. The way the ‘wolves immediately seek comfort from Stiles is changes the dynamic of it all, and Alan has to think it has something to do with his Spark.

  “What happened?” Stiles eventually asks, when Erica and Danny peel themselves away from him, some of the tension dissolving.

  “Laura’s scent was fresh,” Isaac mumbles against the top of Stiles’ head. “and there were definitely vamps there, but—”

  “Nothing,” Erica cuts in, crossing her arms over her chest as she sits on the coffee table. “We couldn’t get anything from the scents.”

  Stiles hmms to himself and, seemingly absentmindedly, starts to to run his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Peter probably doesn’t have her, then.”

  “Why do you figure?” Danny asks as Jackson and Boyd move carefully to the couch.

  “I mean, he might be working _with_  the vamps, but that seems unlikely,” he continues, more to himself than to any in the pack.

  “Maybe we should talk to the Argents.” Lydia taps her phone against her chin. “They might have an idea of what’s going on; you think anything’s happened in town that we haven’t heard about?”

  Alan shakes his head. “Not that I have heard of, but it wouldn’t hurt to check in with them. Perhaps Peter is staying in town; it would make it much easier to locate him if we had the help of the Argents.” Derek pulls away from Stiles a little, enough to send a calculating look to Alan, but he says nothing.

  Stiles looks down at his alpha, pouting thoughtfully. “Der, you think that’d work? I mean, with your track record with them and all.”

  Derek shrugs and puts his head back in Stiles’ shoulder; Isaac moves away from Stiles, Derek shifting to occupy the empty space. Stiles doesn’t even seem to realize, too deep in thought.

  “Mr. Stilinski, it might be wise for you to remain in the shadows for a bit longer.”

  Lydia asks, “How do you mean?”

  Rubbing a hand over his chin, Alan doesn’t answer for a moment. “I have some things to check before I can justify myself, Miss Martin. But I strongly advise against revealing to the rest of the town that you were not killed four years ago.”

  “Deaton, the dark and mysterious act is not as attractive as it once was,” Stiles mutters scathingly. “If you have suspicions, speak up.”

  Alan takes that as his cue to leave, not wanting to cause an even deeper rift between himself and the pack should he be proven wrong. “Derek, I suggest you start looking for Peter as soon as possible. I will alert the Agents to a desired meeting.”

  By the time Alan has gotten to his feet, Derek has straightened as well, and he still doesn’t say anything, but even Alan has the decency to be wary of an alpha looking at him like that. “I can tell them myself, Alan. I do hope you’ll call me first should you find anything.” Simply nodding, and ignoring the glares aimed in his direction as he leaves, Alan ducks out of there quickly.

  He doesn’t pull out his phone until he’s sure the ‘wolves won’t be able to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated; even if it's just formatting or grammar mistakes. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your support,  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	39. Chapter 39 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _June 1st, 2011_
> 
> Derek hadn’t expected to be pulled out of his Harry Potter-induced stupor at four o’clock in the morning by the smell of pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this was not even close to what I had planned for this chapter but wow do I like it so much fucking more holy shit. I think I repeat a couple of words too much, but I actually kind of like how this came out and on the butt-end of a writer's block, that's a great feeling wow.
> 
> But yeah. Stiles is a dork. Derek might be a little in love. Pancakes are delicious.

  Derek hadn’t expected to be pulled out of his Harry Potter-induced stupor at four o’clock in the morning by the smell of pancakes. He’s barely made it to the first task in the Goblet of Fire (he’d started the first book sometime around dinner) when the smell of cooking sugar shakes him from the magic of dragons and ass-holish best friends.

  His inner clock is never wrong, but he still double checks the analog on his nightstand as he carefully gets to his feet and sets down his worn book on the edge of his reading chair. Cocking his head as he leaves his bedroom, he listens to the sound of all the sleeping heartbeats in the house; obviously one is out of place, but the absolutely wondrous scent coming from the kitchen hasn’t seemed to wake any of the other wolves.

  Knowing that Isaac is sleeping on his floor again, and Erica has stolen half of Boyd’s bed, Derek knows it’s Stiles cooking even before he enters the kitchen, but it’s still a sight to see. The human seems at ease, headphones and humming to himself as he ladles out batter onto the griddle Erica had bought but never used.

  He’s even shaking his hips a little, singing a guitar solo under his breath.

  Derek wrinkles his nose when he realizes the batter is a greyish-blue, but it smells incredible despite the color. The counters are covered in ingredients, but almost... neatly, like Stiles had taken great care in making sure cleanup would be easy. The cooking itself is weird enough for Stiles, that he’d had the forethought of cleaning should be a major red flag.

  And the thing is, Derek has seen the fallout of Stiles’ previous escapades in the kitchen — the spaghetti had been a _nightmare_  — so the fact that he hasn’t set anything on fire, or poisoned himself accidentally is a huge feat. Stiles seems _comfortable_ , even, completely in his element and hardly paying attention to what he’s doing; he twirls his wooden spoon above his head as he hums.

  Leaning against the doorjamb, Derek watches him, simultaneously confused and intrigued. The past few months, Derek had left the betas to more or less care for Stiles, teach him the ropes, make him comfortable; he hasn’t been involved with the human all that much. He feels a bit bad about that now, not taking the time to learn more about Stiles.

  Mostly because he’s pretty sure Stiles is listening to Madonna.

  Stiles spins on heel to grab the container of sprinkles from the counter behind him, and he’s lip-syncing passionately when he spies Derek just inside the door.

  He doesn’t screech, like Derek had been expecting, instead freezing with the spoon in the air and lips parted. Derek raises an eyebrow while he lets Stiles process what’s happening, wondering if Stiles has always looked this tired, or if it comes with cooking far too early in the morning.

  “Derek,” Stiles says, a bit too loudly before he seems to remember the headphones, slipping them off. “What’re you doing up?”

  He glances again at the state of the kitchen. “‘Stayed up reading.”

  “How long have you been standing there.”

  “Two minutes?”

  Stiles lets out a relieved sound. “Oh, thank god. Uh.” He looks at the spoon in his hand, then to the bowl behind him. “You... want some pancakes?”

  After a moment of thought, debating whether or not he should ask about Stiles apparent prowess at something Derek had assumed he’d never excel at, Derek answers, “No sprinkles, please.”

  Stiles clears his throat and quickly turns around to flip the pancakes already on the griddle, pulling his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. “Make yourself comfortable, I guess?” he says uncertainly.

  Derek smiles, just a little, but Stiles’ back is turned so he’s sure the human doesn’t see it. “It is my kitchen, Stiles.” He takes a seat at the small table as Stiles snorts, ears a bright red. “Do you need any help?”

  “No, no, I’ve got it. Just... sit there and don’t distract me.”

  Derek raises an eyebrow at that, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright then.” Stiles determinedly doesn’t look at him, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He adds the ready pancakes to the stack already on the other side of the worn stove, all the same odd gray color. And Derek would ask, but with his agreement barely off his tongue, he keeps it to himself and settles back to watch.

  Isaac’s heartbeat picks up from his room, but it isn’t fear, so Derek quickly blocks out the sound, clearing his throat uncomfortably. Stiles sends him a confused glance, but doesn’t say anything either.

  Soon enough, Stiles is bringing over two plates and sets of forks, the bottle of syrup hanging precariously off his ring finger. “Uh, which do you...?”

  Derek takes one of the plates without really thinking about it, allowing Stiles the space to sit in the chair across from him. He douses his pancakes in syrup — so much so, Derek thinks he should be concerned of a heart attack — before passing the bottle to Derek, still not meeting his eye.

  “So, why are _you_  up?” Derek asks around his first bite, which, holy shit. No one should have the power to make food this delicious. Especially resident human pretty boys who have somehow whittled into your life.

  “‘Couldn’t sleep.” Especially resident human pretty boys that hedge around their problems.

  “Any particular reason?” Stiles just shrugs, shoving a huge bite into his mouth to avoid a vocal answer. Derek sighs, but lets it drop, looking down at his plate. “And the gray is because...?”

  “Oh, uh, it’s the New Moon.”

  Yes, Derek was aware; he’d taken the betas out for an early run before dinner. “And?”

  Stiles coughs, ears going red again as he pushes a piece of pancake around in the syrup practically dripping off his plate. “Pancakes are round, so I thought... Y’know. Gray. And round.”

  “You made pancakes to look like the moon.”

  He makes an indignant sound in the back of his throat. “It sounds stupid when you say it like that!”

  Derek hides a smile behind another forkful, shaking his head in disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone left a really sweet message on my tumblr yesterday, and really motivated me to finish this chapter so thank you so much, and to everyone else who comments, subscribes, just kind of reads this in general? Like? I've been in the Sterek tag recently, I know my competition, and it's still amazing that people are reading this.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you.  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frowning, Derek watches his face, the wrinkle between his brows, the deep frown at his lips have assumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It goes without saying that as soon as I like how a chapter comes out, I despise the next one to sorry for this chapter.
> 
> Also I'm bringing in the Argents about ten chapters before I had initially planned, because I realized I can't keep back-burnering them. I was going to have Peter in this one, but decided to push that back a bit. Next chapter will be the first introduction to the Argents, technically and timeline wise. I also changed around some of the dates for the Δ chapters, as I messed some up (big surprise). Everything has been fixed and sorry if any mistakes bothered you guys!

  “The Emissary should definitely go,” Lydia says resolutely, arms crossed over her chest as if Derek could actually think of leaving her behind.

  Jackson adds, “And I go where she goes.” Lydia twitches, just so, but doesn’t argue with him. Derek mentally adds Danny to the list, knowing there’s no way he’d let Jackson brave the Argents without backup.

  Rubbing a hand over his face, he looks at his pack, all of them itching to go with him; even Isaac already has his shoes on. Stiles is at the table, chin in his hand and annoyance rolling off of him in waves. While he had technically agreed with Derek about staying behind, he certainly isn’t happy about it.

  “No one wants to stay?” Derek asks uselessly, none of the ‘wolves raising a hand. “Who’s going to look out for Stiles?”

  “I can look after myself!”

  Derek raises an unamused eyebrow at him, then looks back to the rest of his betas. “None of you?”

  “With all due respect,” Erica starts. “Stiles is fine here by himself, and we’re more worried about the Argents deciding to shank you as soon as you walk through the door.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be great. Just sitting around. Doing nothing.” Stiles huffs and kicks at the leg of the chair next to him.

  “Deaton left the ritual for you; you should learn it.”

  “Yes, ‘cause I’ll definitely be able to concentrate on that.” He sighs. “Would you guys just hurry up? You’re just setting up a meeting, it shouldn’t take all day.”

  “Call your dad while we’re out,” Lydia tells him, using her ‘mom voice’. “He should know what’s going on.”

  “Fine.” Stiles flaps his hand.

  “Let us know if anything happens?”

  “I’ll have Derek on speed dial.”

  Derek nods to the door. “Alright, everybody out. Boyd, you’re driving.” Boyd mock solutes and grabs the keys from the table in the hall, leading the betas out to the car. Stiles doesn’t watch them leave, glaring at the tabletop. Derek sighs and makes his way over, leaning against the table next to him. When Stiles still doesn’t look up, he gently kicks Stiles’ shin. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he grunts back, fiddling with the edge of the folder Deaton had left him.

  “Should I send Danny back in?” he asks seriously, enough so that Stiles doesn’t snark back.

  “No, it’s fine. I just feel useless now, s’all.”

  Frowning, Derek watches his face, the wrinkle between his brows, the deep frown at his lips have assumed. After a moment, Derek pushes the folder closer to him, just a little bit. “Learn this. Then you’ll be stable, and can help more.”

  Stiles is silent for a beat, then snorts and leans back, rubbing his hands over his face. “You’re such a mother hen.”

  “Only when you guys act like baby chicks.” On a whim, he reaches out and ruffles Stiles’ hair as he gets to his feet.

  “Was that actual humor from Derek Hale?” Stiles demands as Derek grabs his jacket.

  “Study,” Derek says in lieu of an answer, closing and locking the door behind himself.

||~||

  Erica gets a distinct sense of pleasure when they roll up in front of the capitol building, and the townsfolk scatter out of the way. As they unload seemingly the entire pack, people dodge out of the way and clear the sidewalk; it’s quite the power trip.

  Derek heads the group as they take the steps to the entrance, striding with purpose and enough death glares that Erica kind of feels like they’re in an action movie. None of the rest of the pack seem to share the sentiment, but Erica quite enjoys the feeling and struts without thinking about it.

  Once inside, the dim, cool air sends a shiver up her spine, but the other occupants of the building avoid eye contact and some even scurry into the employee lounge. The Argents are easy to pick out from the crowd, dressed in black leathers with a haughty air about them that makes the pack’s skin crawl.

  She recognizes some of them from the time they’d pretty much broken down their door, in the literal sense, like the guy at the reception desk missing both middle fingers, but the man quickly approaching them from a side door is someone she’s never met. The way two other men follow him assures Erica he's in charge, though, and Erica stops behind Derek despite wanting to keep some modicum of distance between any Argent and her alpha.

  “Hale,” the man says, voice tight as he holds out a hand. Graying hair and a fatherly tilt to his shoulder, Erica pegs him as the kind of guy to wear scarves around the house like a pretentious asshole.

  Derek takes the hand cautiously. “Argent.”

  “What brings your pack into town? I wasn’t aware anyone had summoned—”

  “We weren’t summoned. We came to set up a meeting.”

  Argent frowns at him. “What about? I’m sure we’ve held up our end of the treaty.”

  Erica is a little offended that their first assumption is that the pack had come to quarrel with the Argents, especially considering that, really, they’d started it by trying to scare them into submission almost three years ago.

  But Derek is calm, at least outwardly. “This is not a discussion for present company. But we are in need of your help as soon as possible.”

  Argent is quiet for a long moment, studying Derek, and then the rest of the pack. Erica actually 100% expects him to tell them to get the fuck out, but then he just says, “I’ll be with you in an hour. My daughter will be here with my lunch soon, then we’ll talk.”

  Derek blinks in surprise, but the expression leaves his face quickly, back to steely indifference. “Thank you.”

  Argent actually smiles a little before he returns to the front desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit behind on my outline, so I'll need to work on those for a while; I should still have the next chapter up this week.
> 
> Thank you guys so so so so very much,  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	41. Chapter 41 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _February 14th, 2012_
> 
> Stiles remembers everything in sharp clarity from the first, hard knock on their door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh okay so this did not come out anything like I'd wanted. I couldn't think of any of the phrases I wanted to use, so if things seem choppy and odd, they are. I'm too tired to fix them right now.
> 
> I didn't even reread this one, so my apologies for grammar/spelling mistakes.

  Stiles would never claim to enjoy Valentines Day, ever, but there is a line at _breaking down their door_  halfway through dinner, and the Argents sure as hell have crossed it.

  Most of the day had been a blur of Erica and Boyd taunting the rest of them that they were, in fact, very single. Stiles and Isaac had mostly just watched TV in hopes of passing the time faster, but Derek had been on edge since lunch; Stiles hopes it isn’t because he’d rammed right into the alpha with his hot chocolate.

  Stiles remembers everything in sharp clarity from the first, hard knock on their door.

  Derek had shot up to his feet, panic poorly disguised, and by the the tension skyrocketing, none of the ‘wolves had heard anyone approach the house. Derek had inhaled sharply, then without saying anything, grabbed Stiles by the collar and dragging him into the hallway just as whoever was outside the door decided to start _kicking their door in_.

  Which is how Stiles ends up in the hall closet, crammed against a vacuum and Derek’s summer coats. There’s a sliver of light at the crack in the door, and Stiles can just barely see the confrontation going on outside of it.

  Stiles hadn’t seen much of the Argents when he’d been living in town; they were more of a background force before the attack on his home, so Stiles doesn’t actually recognize any of the three faces currently staring down his pack. It’s obvious who they are though, black leather sticking to their frame as they sneer at the ‘wolves. The apparent leader, a grisly man missing his middle fingers, stands closest to Derek; Stiles has to give him props for now cowering away from Derek’s alpha glare.

  “I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors,” Derek says lowly.

  “I wasn’t aware Chris was letting you off the hook after that whole... mishap with Stilinski.”

  Stiles’ heart lodges itself in his throat, stomach dropping to somewhere near his feet. He’d been so sure that no one would realize he was still...

  “You know as well as I that was ruled as a vamp attack, Howard. No ‘wolves involved.”

  Howard’s sneer only grows. “Isn’t it a mite suspicious that no one bothered to check your lands? You could have been harboring them this whole time and no one would have been the wis—”

  Erica lurches forward, claws out, and is barely stopped by Boyd’s strong arm, near yelling, “We had nothing to do with those monsters! Stiles, he—”

  “Erica,” Derek cuts her off quickly, Howard’s curiosity piqued. “They went to school together,” her alpha quickly amends. “Her and Stilinski’s kid.”

  “Is that so.” Howard doesn’t look entirely convinced, turning to look at one of his companions so Stiles can no longer see him. Somewhere behind Derek, Isaac makes a small sound, and Stiles just wants to get out of there, apologize to all of them for bringing this on them. It’s hardly his fault, he knows, but they’d _busted their door_  trying to get to them.

  “I take it you’re not here on Chris’ authority.” Derek’s voice has dropped even more, icy and dangerous.

  Howard doesn’t balk, though. “No, and it’d do you,” he pauses and looks behind Derek to the betas. “and your pack well to keep that between us. ‘Wouldn’t want anything to char up your brand new home, would you?”

  “Out,” Derek growls lowly.

Howard’s companions flinch, and Howard looks near enough to it himself, but even as the other hunters back up towards the door, Howard stands his ground just long enough to say, “You have been warned, Hale. Stay in line.”

  “Get out!” Howard disappears from Stiles’ line of sight, and the door slams closed a moment after, but something sounds like it crumbles. They literally kicked in their door.

  Stiles barely manages to stay in the closet long enough to hear the Argents drive away, shaking hands fisted at his sides. Derek hasn’t moved, and he’s so tense it looks like it hurts, but none of the betas seem to know what to do.

  It’s with a shaky breath that Stiles steels himself and doesn’t stop to think exactly why he needs to take fixing the pack onto himself.

  He kicks open the door gently, like the whole exchange hadn’t even happened and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb, the picture of ease. He waits for the pack’s eyes turn to him before he drawls, “Well, this isn’t exactly how I planned to come out of the closet, but nothing beats the real thing, I guess.” Derek blinks at him, wide-eyed, and clearly doesn’t get it. “I’m bi, Derek. I’m coming out. Of the closet. Right now.” He gestures to himself and makes a show of stepping out of the closet completely.

  Derek might crack the smallest of smiles after that, and Stiles decides he really likes that smile. It’s the only expression that doesn’t appear to physically pain Derek, so Stiles will swallow his momentary shame. It’s well worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got an absolutely amazing message earlier this week, and I just want to say thank you again. I really needed it.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support,  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh?” Argent asks carefully, slowly settling back down into the chair; Derek can physically see his defenses raising. “What of it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I'm so sorry for the lateness and the overall crapiness of this chapter. I was helping a friend move and then realized I need to pack to move and it's been a crazy week.

  “I thought everyone except for you and your sister had died in the fire,” Argent says uncertainly, fingers drumming on his far too-shiny desk as he lounges in his chair. Derek tears his attention from the odd juxtaposition of Argent’s leathers and the polished oak of his office, to Argent himself. He was obviously reluctant to even have this meeting, but Derek appreciates he at least looks like he wants to humor them.

  “So did we, for several years. I’d heard... a few rumors when I moved back to Beacon Hills, but we quite literally ran into him at the Nemeton a couple of days ago.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  Derek glares. “He’s family, Argent. You know as well as I do that they aren’t easily forgotten.”

  Argent does fall silent at that, pursing his lips as he fiddles with a perfectly ordinary bic pen. “And,” he continues. “what does this have to do with us?”

  “He has new alpha status, and we don’t know how he got it,” Isaac pipes up from beside Derek, having been the only other ‘wolf allowed in the room with Derek.

  “And? It’s not as if there’s a surplus of ‘wolves in Beacon Hills, Hale. He probably killed an alpha further in state.”

  Derek rubs a hand over his face, regretting even trying to come in. “Chris.” Argent subtly straightens in his chair, meeting Derek’s eyes for the first time since he’d closed the office door. “He’s after something, he wanted my help. He isn’t close to stable; he’s already kidnapped a civilian and attacked my pack.”

  With a hum, Argent sits properly, folding his hands in front of himself. “Do you know what he’s after?”

  “No,” Derek shakes his head. “He wolfed out before he even tried to talk to us.”

  “He’s completely nuts,” Isaac adds unhelpfully, and decidedly /doesn’t/ cower under Argent’s glare.

  Derek continues, “His scent is all over the place; I can’t track him.”

  “What do you want me to do about it? He’s a ‘wolf in Hale territory, he’s your responsibility.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Argent. We could really use your help in tracking him down; I believe he’s staying somewhere in Beacon Hills.”

  Argent scratches his stubbly cheek, Isaac’s eyes following the movement warily. “Some of my Hunters won’t appreciate having to help you, but if you think the situation is dire en—”

  “We do.”

  “Then I’ll make some calls,” Argent picks up the bic and makes a quick note on the stack of blue stickies next to his phone.

  Isaac starts to get up, seemingly satisfied, but Derek doesn’t move. Argent raises an eyebrow questioningly, and Derek waits until curiosity wins the human’s favor, if just to feel the small sense of accomplishment for catching him off guard.

  “Is there something else, Hale?”

  “I want to talk about the Stilinski fire.”

  Isaac almost trips over his feet, barely catching himself on the arm of his chair. Derek doesn’t give Argent the satisfaction of looking to his beta, determinedly maintaining eye contact.

  “Oh?” Argent asks carefully, slowly settling back down into the chair; Derek can physically see his defenses raising. “What of it?”

  “I may have some information about the attack.” Out of the corner of his eye, Derek can see Isaac watching him, and god, he hopes his beta doesn’t look nearly as betrayed as he seems.

  “Dare I ask how you came across this?”

  Derek shifts uncomfortably, flexing his hand a couple of times to dispel the restless energy. “A week or so after the fire, I went to check the crime scene myself. I smelled vampires.”

  “Yes, we had Deaton confirm that soon after.”

  “I don’t know how he would have known that without having spoken to me first; the scent was hardly there, and I couldn’t get any kind of read on it.”

  “You mean—?” For all of Stiles’ and Lydia’s coddling and puppy jokes, Isaac isn’t stupid, and quickly catches onto where Derek is going. “Why are they back?”

  “Back?” Argent demands, shooting upright in alarm.

  Derek holds out a hand to calm Isaac. “At the Nemeton, my pack and I smelled vampires, but like with the Stilinski attack, we couldn’t figure anything about the vamps that had been there. No numbers, no characteristics, not even how long they’d been there. Their scent stopped a couple of yards from the Nemeton itself.”

  “How probable is it that they’re the same coven that attacked the Stilinskis?”

  Derek really fucking hopes all Alan had told him was true. “Putting aside the fact that vamps rarely travel in covens anymore, with so few families still alive, Alan is sure that the cloaking this coven seems to be doing is extremely difficult. The likelihood of two different covens being able to perform it, both within miles of Beacon Hills, is very slim.”

  “It’s a steep accusation, Hale.” Though Argent is definitely paying attention now, Derek gets the feeling help with the coven is going to be minimal at best. But then, “I’ll request the city council up patrols and regulations. I’m afraid we can’t do much in the Preserve without your perm—”

  “I wouldn’t have come to you if I’d been unwilling to offer my help.” Derek finds himself saying, and is glad his voice sounds more sure than he feels. “I’ll have to talk to my emissary about what she thinks is best for the Nemeton.”

  Argent nods. “I’ll arrange a meeting with Deaton as well. We’ll call you when we have a good idea of how to deal with all of this?”

  Derek offers the smallest smile, relief tingling in his fingertips. “I’m always available.” He gets to his feet and Isaac scrambles to follow suit. They make to leave, but Derek stops at the door. “Thank you, Chris.”

  “I want to protect this town just as much as you do, Hale. We’ll be in touch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got another super sweet message on tumblr, so I'll try to get the next three chapters up soon T*T I don't want to fall behind again.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	43. Chapter 43 (Δ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 6th, 2012_
> 
> “Well, I’d hope not,” he responds blandly, not quite sure what else could have surprised Stiles about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeted and not reread, so basically, I'm just getting this up because I don't want to look at it anymore. Sorry about the delay.

  “Stiles.”

  “No, it’s fucking stupid, Derek. I don’t plan on going to college, and it’s not like I can get a job as a deadman, so what’s the fucking point?”

  “Stiles.” Derek sighs. The human ignores him, pacing only picking up in speed.

  “I’m already doing all this fucking training for Deaton, do I really have time to be studying chemistry? I mean, it might actually help with spellwork, but that’s not the _point_ —”

  “Stiles, wa—”

  “It’s just formality. Like, I could complete all those classes in a week and learn more from our library in a _day_ , Derek.”

  “I’m aware—”

  “Who even gives a fuck about US history anyway? Anything I need to know, I have Google for—”

  “Stiles.” Derek gets to his feet and puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, stopping him mid-step from where Derek is sure he’s walking a run into the wood floors. Stiles opens his mouth, surely to protest, but Derek flashes his eyes warningly. “You’re the one that said you wanted to finish school.”

  He grumbles as he avoids Derek’s eye. “It’s stupid, though. They’re too easy. I can’t focus on them.”

  “Then why can’t you just request the tests?”

  “You have to answer all the questions, Der.”

  Derek hums and releases him. “Is your adderall not working?” Stiles shakes his head.

  “‘Too boring for it to work.” He scuffs his shoe against the ground, more of a feeble kick than anything, then turns and huffly sits back at the table. Textbooks are scattered over the surface, loose papers spilling onto the floor and Derek thinks he spies a highlighter under the couch.

  Derek joins him at the table and picks up one one of the packets the online school had sent Stiles the week before, frowning at the cover. “Are you sure they’re actually easy, and you’re not just thinking you know the answers?” Stiles shoots him a glare, Derek quickly conceding with a shrug. “‘Thought I should check.”

  “It wouldn’t be that bad if I was just doing a couple of classes, but that I have to do _all_  of them...” he breathes out shakily, running a hand through his hair and just making it worse.

  And Derek feels bad, because he’d been the one to suggest Stiles still get his diploma, but Stiles really had seemed keen on it at the time. “How many do you have left?”

  “Uhm. Six, I think.”

  “That’s not that many,” he tries to reason.

  “It is when it’s stupid classes like Chemistry and Spanish.”

  Derek had quite enjoyed those classes when he’d been in school, but he keeps that to himself and pulls out the chair closest to where Stiles is slumped. “Well, we’ve already paid for all of these classes, and we were lucky enough that the university didn’t bother to check death certificates.”

  “‘Not the point, Derek. I’m taken eighteen of these already, I can’t handle it.”

  “I don’t know much about Chemistry, but I could do your Spanish class for you.”

  Stiles’ form stills for a moment before he looks up sharply, eyeing Derek up and down. “They’ll know if you’re using Google Translate.”

  “I know the basics, Stiles,” Derek kicks him under the table. “Enough to get you through third year classes.”

  “Der, that’s more than the basics. Why do you remember so much of it? It’s been, what, eight years?”

  “It’s been five. And we had an exchange student living with me and Laura for a while in New York. Miguel. Spoke almost no English.”

  Stiles is still eyeing him funny, with that careful, calculated look that makes Derek dread another prank war; the last one had ended in three hundred pounds of flour and a broken toe. “What?” he demands.

  “You’re just a bundle of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Stiles sits up and waves his hands vaguely, gesturing to Derek. “You’re just so... surprising. Like every time I think I have you figured out, you pull shit like this on me, and I have to rearrange my whole thought process. You’re nothing like the town had painted you.”

  “Well, I’d hope not,” he responds blandly, not quite sure what else could have surprised Stiles about himself.

  “No, like, you like _cinnamon_ , in your _coffee_ , and you make fruit salad on Sundays, and you read Harry Potter, and you speak _Spanish_. You’re not consistent.” He flaps his hand even closer to Derek’s face, narrowly missing his nose.

  “You’ve been living with me for over a year now, Stiles. This might be the last big surprise for you.”

  Stiles purses his lips, unconvinced. He swings his feet up onto the table, landing with a clunk inches from his laptop. “Whatever you say, Der.”

  Derek hides an amused half smile behind the hand he leans into, watching Stiles make some weird symbol in the air with his fingers; he thinks it’s a banishing sigil. Derek would like to think things like that had taken a while to get use to, but really, Stiles had picked up magic like he’d picked up another series of books, and it was entirely in the ordinary to see him practicing anywhere in the house.

  Thinking on it, acclimating to life with Stiles had been almost too easy, fitting him into life with the betas, changing every routine they’d ever had. Erica had taken to him quickly, which was to be expected, with Boyd close behind, but Derek had been sure Isaac would have been the most resistant to change; he’d almost pitched a fit when Derek came home with newly-bitten Erica and Boyd in tow. But he got along with Stiles better than any of them, and if it weren’t for Isaac’s constant assurances that he is 100% straight, Derek might have thought he and Stiles would end up at the very least fucking.

  But, with the brotherly bond that had formed over the past year, they’re easily the closest of the betas. For which Derek is totally grateful, but it does leave a little too much to think ab—

  “Derek?”

  Derek blinks and focuses on Stiles, kicking himself for getting caught staring. “What?”

  “I asked if you’re actually going to help me with Spanish, or keep staring at me like you want to eat me.”

  Well, there are worse thoughts to have.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support,  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That must be it. And where is Stiles? I made his favorite Pozolé—”
> 
> Derek is about to, probably harshly, tell her that Stiles is sleeping, but the human in question appears in the doorway before he can get the words out, sniffing the air and looking incredibly sleepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay; life caught up with me ^-^'

  Stiles is slumped over the table when the pack returns to the house. The bond ripples with momentary panic at the sight, but quickly calms when they realize that he is, in fact, just sleeping.

  Lydia sends them all a look, quite clearly meaning, ‘Wake him and I end you’, as they slowly enter the living room. It doesn’t escape her notice that Isaac sticks even closer to Derek than normal, and not for the first time that day, she mentally curses the Argents for effectively sound-proofing their offices; not even Boyd could hear what went on during the meeting with Chris.

  Jackson and Danny head immediately for the kitchen, barely sparing her a glance, and while normally Lydia would be miffed, her attention stays on Derek. Her alpha stands next to the table, fingers resting on the surface close enough to touch Stiles’ arm.

  His chest jerks with a resigned sigh, before he bends down and carefully scoops Stiles up into his arms. Isaac backs off a little at that, stepping instead to be closer to Lydia, and she gets a short flush of pleasure. Isaac had always been the hardest to get along with; that he finds some peace in her presence is infinitely flattering.

  Derek disappears into the hallway to, presumably, take Stiles to his room, as Lydia pulls her phone out of her pocket. She quickly shoots Danny a text, hearing his phone ping from the kitchen.

  _Ten bucks says Derek makes a move by Christmas._

  Danny barks out a laugh, showing the screen to Jackson, who snorts and turns back to the sandwich he’s making. _Ten says Stiles makes the first move._

  With a smirk, Lydia forwards the text to the rest of the pack, Isaac even jumping when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

  _I’ve got ten on they fuck by New Years,_  Erica responds.

  Boyd quickly types, _Five says they don’t do anything until Valentines._

  From the kitchen, Jackson elbows Danny, who snickers as he sends, _Jackson puts twenty on Stiles being ace._

  This gives Lydia pause as she leans against the arm of the couch, tapping her phone against her chin. Stiles does make a lot of sex jokes, but that could very well be over-compensation. And Jackson has always been better at guessing these things...

  Isaac barely manages to text, _Ten on Stiles making a move by the end of the month,_  before Derek walks back into the room, and Lydia is rather pleased with the betting pool she’d started in less than five minutes.

  She pockets her phone after sending Isaac, _That doesn’t give you much time; prepare to be out ten bucks_. She pushes off the couch and makes her way to the table, leafing through the open folder Stiles had fallen asleep on. Derek joins her, looking over her shoulder.

  “I didn’t actually expect him to start studying it,” she says thoughtfully, eyeing the small notes Stiles seemed to have added to the margins.

  Derek just hums and moves to join Danny and Jackson in the kitchen. It takes him but a moment to root through the entire contents of the fridge, the whole pack sensing the impending chewing out about keeping the house stocked, but Derek doesn’t even get his mouth open as he’s interrupted by a quick knock on the door.

  They all look to Boyd, who hadn’t alerted them, but he just shrugs from under Erica, who’s perched on his lap. “It’s Scott’s mom.”

  Lydia perks at that and quickly moves to answer the door. Melissa stands on the stoop, looking a bit nervous, but carrying a large paper bag full of what smells like Mexican food. “Hello, Ms. McCall.”

  “Oh, hello.” She sounds surprised, though Lydia can hardly blame her; few in the town should know she’s even part of the pack. “I told Stiles I’d bring food...”

  Isaac appears behind Lydia with a plaintive whine, Lydia stepping aside to let the beta pull Melissa into the house. Lydia follows them once she’s sure the door is properly latched, smiling as she takes in the sight of her pack swarming the coffeetable where Melissa had set down the bag.

  “Thank you for stopping by,” Lydia tells her, Melissa just waving a hand.

  “It was no trouble. Scott said it seemed like you all ate out a lot.”

  Derek quickly takes over divvying out food, instructing Danny and Jackson for plates, batting Isaac’s hand away from the glass containers of food. Lydia is glad that Derek is actually good at curbing the hunger of a pack of wolves long enough for everybody to get a share, because Lydia wants nothing to do with telling Erica she can’t eat just yet.

  “I believe Derek was just about to order pizza, yes.”

  Melissa smiles a little, but casts Lydia a sideways glance. “You use to go to Beacon Hills High, didn’t you?”

  “Lydia Martin,” she confirms, returning the smile. “I was in a lot of Stiles’ classes.”

  “That must be it. And where is Stiles? I made his favorite Pozolé—”

  Derek is about to, probably harshly, tell her that Stiles is sleeping, but the human in question appears in the doorway before he can get the words out, sniffing the air and looking incredibly sleepy.

  He crosses the room in a few long strides as soon as he sees Melissa, all but tackling her into a hug. Melissa catches him like she’s use to this, arms wrapped around him tight enough that it looks almost painful.

  The pack quiets a little, but continues to laden their plates, averting their eyes and their smiles.

  When the humans finally part, Stiles’ wiping his eyes on his hoodie sleeve and Melissa giving a suspicious cough, Stiles darts forward to snatch the thermos of the promised pozolé from Isaac’s curious hands. “Mine,” he says warningly, bending around Derek to steal the spoon from Derek’s plate.

  Lydia grins inwardly as she offers a chair to Melissa. “Not to ruin the mood, but what has Scott told you?”

  Melissa looks up at her, only slightly surprised. “Not much, not about this... situation with Peter.” Derek tenses, but says nothing. “Peter bit him?”

  Relieved Scott had at least mentioned it, Lydia takes a seat near Melissa, between Stiles and Isaac. “It’s not nearly as bad as it sounds, I assure you. Alan Deaton will be able to tell you more about what to expect.”

  “The vet?” she asks, sounding unsure.

  “He’s a druid,” Stiles pipes up around a mouthful of soup. “Normally, Derek would be the one to explain it all, but we’re a little preoccupied.”

  “Is Scott in any danger?”

  Humming around his spoon, Stiles shrugs. “A little more than the other townsfolk; Peter might expect Scott to become his beta, but he’s missing a few screws, so we don’t really know what to expect.”

  “He’s feral,” Derek tries to clarify, but it does little to help Melissa’s confusion. Lydia pats her arm gently.

  “Talk to Alan. It’s easier to hear from someone like him than us.”

  With an inward sigh, Melissa nods in agreement. “I’ll call him as soon as I’m home. What are you doing about the Peter problem?”

  “I’m working on it.” Stiles waves his spoon, flicking a bit of soup onto Lydia’s leg; she brushes it off with a warning look.

  Melissa laughs. “Nothing’s changed, then.”

  “What do you mean?” Isaac raises an eyebrow.

  “When Stiles and Scott were kids, Stiles was always in charge of their harebrained schemes.” She launches into a long-winded tale of the Great Ice Cream Caper of 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Melissa's family as coming from Mexico, so Scott knows at least a little Spanish. 'Probably won't work that into the fic itself too much, but welp.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me, I'm so sorry about these mini hiatuses I keep taking.  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	45. Chapter 45 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 2nd, 2014_
> 
> Something seems to change in the temperature, the air stilling, the forest going silent for a split second that shatters as Derek suddenly has his hands all over Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers into the void* I have failed

   Isaac smelled the body first.

  The whole pack was a bit antsy already, what with Stiles at home. Alone. For the first time in months. Even Boyd’s pokerface wasn’t up to par as usual, but Stiles had insisted that they all go for a run.

  Derek had barely been leading them through the preserve, more or less just wandering at the front of the group with a vacant look in his eyes. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the house, and he didn’t normally anyway, but there was something tangible to the silence when Isaac nearly tripped over his own feet as the acrid scent of smoke hit his nose.

  The body was less than five miles from the house.

  Isaac stands back now, on the very edge of the clearing, his muscles refusing to move. Derek is one his knees next to the corpse, not shifted yet, but he looks close to it. His face is blank, hands fisted in the scorched grass.

  Danny has his arms around Jackson, hiding the latter’s face in his shoulder, though Jackson seems just as frozen as Derek. Someone is all but screaming, but Isaac hears it distantly; Erica, he thinks.

  A breeze carries the smoke back in his direction. His stomach roils, bile rising in the back of his throat; burned flesh is bad enough, baking organs and boiled blood. But tinting the air, settling on his tongue like a fog, is the unmistakable scent of _Stiles_. Pancakes and his stupid floral body wash; his herbal teas and the thin, musky smell of his sweat after pack cuddles.

  The edges of Isaac’s vision blurs a little as Danny pulls away from Jackson and sprints back the way they came, Jackson’s devastated keening left in his absence.

  Distantly, Isaac knows he should be grabbing Derek and hauling him back to the house before his nails cut through his palms completely, but he finds himself rooted to the spot. And recently, it’s Stiles that’s been able to get to Derek, calm him down, talk him out of stupid decisions, and oh god he’s gonna be sick.

  Isaac isn’t sure when he’d stumbled to sit at the base of the nearest tree, but now there are twigs poking through his jeans, and leaves crunching in his hands. Erica has stopped screaming, collapsed on the ground, and Boyd is barely holding her upright.

  It’s actually kind of odd, Isaac muses vaguely, vision getting that hazy edge again. Saving Stiles had been a whim, a pleading whine from Erica when they’d found him in the woods that night. When Isaac had howled for Derek, he had expected his alpha to maybe drive the kid to the hospital and then leave at that, but they hadn’t. Maybe Derek sensed something about him, maybe he was scared the authorities would go after his betas, Isaac has no idea; he’s never thought to ask. The point is, Stiles wasn’t supposed to be _this_. This important to the pack. The glue that holds them all together.

  One of the first things Derek had taught him about pack is that it’s by choice; even wolves born into the same family have to choose to be bonded with everyone else. Isaac could have easily denounced Derek has his alpha as soon as he’d been bit, Erica and Boyd could have gone with the other pack that had passed through two years before. Stiles shouldn’t have just been able to... weasel into their lives and claim a spot in their bond and their den and their kitchen. He shouldn’t have been able to ruffle Derek’s hair without getting snapped at, or memorize how Boyd takes his coffee, or be able to use that stupid fucking body wash without fear Isaac’s going to rip his throat out in the middle of the night.

  The wind changes direction, blessedly blowing the smoke away from them all. The wind now carries something else, though, something that makes Isaac’s nose twitch and his chest tighten up.

  He whips around, skidding on the leaves in his haste to look behind him. Danny is wolfed out and racing through the trees towards them, a floral-scented figure astride his back. A cry of relief rises in his throat, but doesn’t escape before Danny and Stiles launch into the clearing, Stiles dropping to the ground before Danny has even stopped.

  Stiles heads for Isaac first, kneeling down in front of him and putting his hands on Isaac’s cheeks. “You moron,” Stiles whispers before smooshing Isaac’s face until it resembles a fish.

  Erica and Jackson all but pounce on Stiles, nearly toppling the human into Isaac, but he manages to catch himself. Isaac joins a moment later, the ‘wolves smothering Stiles in their scent. Danny and Boyd stand just off to the side, hovering just outside the ‘wolf puddle.

  After a long few minutes, Stiles clears his throat. Erica and Jackson pull away a little, still touching their human, but Stiles keeps Isaac close. He can smell the anxiety rippling over Stiles’ skin, and frowns.

  “What do I do?” he asks quietly, right next to Isaac’s ear, and it takes him a moment to understand what he means. Isaac raises his head and looks to the corpse, and to Derek; he’s standing now, watching them with wide eyes and loose hands.

  Instead of saying anything, Isaac just nudges Stiles to his feet and gives him a short shove in Derek’s direction. Erica grudgingly lets go of his sleeve, though it takes Jackson longer to relinquish his hold on Stiles at all; Stiles has to pry his hand from his arm.

  Getting to his feet, Isaac watches as Stiles cautiously approaches Derek, who doesn’t move other than to follow Stiles’ movements with his eyes. His nostrils flare when Stiles stops just in front of him, eyebrows furrowing into a deep v, and it’s clear to the pack he still doesn’t believe Stiles is there.

  Something seems to change in the temperature, the air stilling, the forest going silent for a split second that shatters as Derek suddenly has his hands all over Stiles. His nose to Stiles’ throat, his chest, his fingers gripping at the fabric of his hoodie, the skin of his hips. He explores whatever skin he can reach, and Stiles doesn’t seem to even mind. He puts his hands on Derek’s arms, doesn’t push him away, and the air changes again.

  Isaac can smell rain on the wind, and there’s relief in the thought that it will wash away the scent of the corpse not ten feet from them. There’s relief in the feeling of the pack bond stitching itself back together, almost seeming to glow in the wake of the pack’s distress.

  Isaac relaxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the almost two-month delay. I'd love to blame starting college, but I've actually just had absolutely zero motivation to work on this. 
> 
> I'm also doing NaNoWriMo, because I hate myself, so I'm not sure if updates are gonna be consistent again, but I'll try my best! I really kinda wanna finish this story before the end of the year, so I can start other things, but I'm honestly not sure if that's going to be possible with how much I still need to get to. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your support, especially in my hiatuses. I've gotten some lovely messages over the past few weeks, which I'm responding to as we speak, and they really motivated me to get this chapter up. So, thank you. You guys put up with a lot.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stiles,” he breathes, not sure what to even say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* Guess who isn't dead.

 Scott hasn’t thanked Beacon Hills’ weather in years, but he does now as he drives out to the post office, glad he can wear long sleeves to hide the bandages on his arm without it looking odd to the townsfolk.

 Despite his mother’s fussing, it hadn’t actually hurt after his... shift. And he’s seen enough wounds through his mom’s work to know that it’s healing faster than it should, so where’s the harm in going about his life like normal? Normal is easier, he decides. Though he’d never been very good at lying to himself, he thinks he can pretend for at least the time being.

 Pretending he isn’t jumping at the slightest sound is a little harder, especially when it’s something as simple as the post office clerk folding over a piece of paper. Stiles had given him a list of things that were going to change, and yeah, improved hearing  _ had _  been near the top, but Stiles hadn’t really prepared him for just how loud everything was going to be.

 Scott walks up to the counter and politely asks for the package his mother was expecting. 

  “Just a moment.” The clerk smiles and disappears into the back room, leaving Scott alone. 

 With nothing else to focus on, Scott finds himself barely having to strain his ears to be able to hear the crows outside squawking. Or the man with a mullet swearing out a waiter in the restaurant across the street. Or the girl approaching the post office door with a phone pressed to her ear.

 “Dad, it’s fine. Do the Hales even know I exist?”

 Realising he’s staring, Scott quickly looks away as the girl pushes open the door with a roll of her eyes. She doesn’t seem to see him, going over to the row of PO boxes and pulling out a set of keys from her pocket.

 “Sir?” the clerk says, with the tone that she’d said it several times.

 Scott clears his throat. “Sorry. Thank you.” He takes the package from her, and signs the clipboard with a crusty old biro. 

 “Look, I’ll be careful, okay? It’s not like I don’t know how to handle werewolves.” 

 Tensing, Scott watches the girl hangs up the phone and walk to the clerk next to him. She catches his eye and offers a small smile, nothing but friendly, but Scott feels his stomach drop out.

 He can’t get out of the post office quick enough after that, almost forgetting the package in his rush to get back to his mom’s car. He doesn’t drive away, though, frozen stiff in the driver’s seat with the doors locked.

 He can still see the girl through the window, as unassuming as anything. But some instinct deep in Scott’s core screams  _ danger _  and something else he can’t quite name; almost like comfort? 

 Swallowing his uneasy feeling, Scott quickly pulls out his phone and calls Stiles. It rings long enough that he fears it’ll go straight to voicemail, but Stiles eventually picks up, sounding groggy, but content.

 “Ey, Scotty. What’s up?”

 “Stiles,” he breathes, not sure what to even say. Nothing had actually happened.

 Stiles picks up on it immediately, suddenly very serious. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

 “I- Uhm. Nothing?”

 “‘Doesn’t sound like nothing, pal.”

 Scott leans his head against the steering wheel, trying to ignore the fact he can  _ still hear her _  talking pleasantly with the clerk. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

 “Did you shift?”

 “No, nothing like that. Can I... Can I come over?”

 “Of course, buddy.” Stiles goes quiet for a moment, then says, “I’d get him, but...” to someone on the other end of the phone. “Scott, where are you?”

 “Outside the post office. I’m in my mom’s car, so I can drive-”

 “You’ll do no such thing. Derek’s on his way to get you, and Isaac can take the car back to your house.”

 “I can drive, Stiles. I did drive here.”

 “Too bad. Derek’ll be there in five.”

 Scott sighs, but concedes, taking the keys out of the ignition. “Which one is Isaac?”

 “Blue eyes and perfect hair. Like, seriously, fuck him. I think you two’ll get along.”

 “You think?” Thankful for the distraction, Scott feels his heart rate start to slow. 

 “If you got a haircut, you two could be twins.” Stiles drops something and swears loudly (a pot, maybe?) and tells Lydia to stop laughing. “Hey, your mom dropped by last night.”

 “Yeah, she said you cried.”

 “Hey, shut up; I’m not completely heartless. Her  Pozolé is even better than I remembered.”

 Scott smiles a little bit, remembering when they use to watch cartoons when John had to work late, wrapped up in blankets and sipping at mugs of Pozolé like it was hot chocolate. “She started putting tomatillos in.”

 “Whatever it is, it’s heavenly. Man, if only I could cook.”

 Oh, Scott remembers that too. There’s still a huge scorch mark in one of the kitchen cupboards. “Do you still make pancakes?”

 “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer, asshole. Derek says he’s almost there, so I’m going to hang up, okay? Don’t bite his head off.”

 Scott swallows nervously. “Can werewolves do that?”

 “I meant the expression, Scott. Man, you’ve got a long way to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooo boy has this been a long time coming. I can't believe I left you guys on such an awful ∆ chapter. Or for almost five months?? I hope some of y'all are still here? I'm so so sorry. I have about five million excuses, but none of them are kinda worth it so. Just. I'm gonna try my absolute damndest to get back to weekly updates. 
> 
> I've still gotten comments and kudos during this hiatus?? Thank you??? So much????
> 
> Seriously.  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	47. Chapter 47 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _April 5th, 2013_
> 
> “I know, I know, but still. Erica loves having another girl around.”
> 
> “What, you aren’t enough?” She eyes his painted nails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this. Two chapters in a day. The world must be ending.

  Lydia is weird. Stiles knows this. Has known since preschool when she knocked Jackson on his ass when he’d kissed her cheek without permission, then brought a flower crown to Danny not five minutes after. 

  And Lydia might not remember much about Stiles before, but he finds he’s okay with that, knowing they can be this now.

  This being them tangled on the couch while simultaneously swearing each other out over Mario Kart while the rest of the pack is trying to sleep.

  “Stilinski, if you hit me with that fucking blue shell-”

  “Too late,” he snickers, only letting her shove him off the couch once he’s crossed the finish line. He accepts his fate and lays at the foot of the sofa, stifling laughs at Lydia’s cracking composure. 

  “You are the absolute worst.”

  “Hey, all’s fair in love and Mario Kart.”

  She drops her controler on him. “I guess I’ve been spoiled with Jackson’s weak ass.”

  “I’ve never known somebody to be  _ so fucking bad _  at videogames,” Stiles agrees, grinning up at her. “You should have seen Isaac trying to teach him how to play Halo.”

  She smirks and primly crosses her legs, but falls quiet. With the silence comes the heavy realisation that she’s leaving in the morning, and what fragile little thing they’ve built up over past month has to end. 

  Stiles doesn’t want her like he use to, and they both know that, but now there is something between them, and Stiles doesn’t want to lose that either. “Hey, Lyds...”

  “I swear to god, if you start getting mushy, I’m going to hex you.”

  He kicks at her with a frown. “I’ll make you guys pancakes tomorrow?” This gives her enough pause for him to get out, “Promise you’ll write?” before she cat cut him off.

  Her lips purse, and she doesn’t look at him for a moment. “Of course, Stiles.”

  Stiles avoids her eye and instead looks up to the ceiling. “Jackson’ll be skyping with the pack every month. Maybe we could...?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  That does take some of the weight off of his shoulders, but not all of it, though he didn’t expect it to. He inhales a sigh and climbs back up onto the couch, sticking one of his feet under himself. “It’s gonna be weird without you guys around anymore.”

  “It’s for the best, Stiles,” she sighs. “Jackson needs to sort everything out before he’s ready to be in a pack.”

  “I know, I know, but still. Erica loves having another girl around.”

  “What, you aren’t enough?” She eyes his painted nails.

  “You say that like they look bad.” In fact, he’d go so far as to say they look better than Lydia’s, no shame. “‘Sides, she wants a girl she can  _ spar _  with. I’m not gonna forget the dislocated pinky, Lyds.”

  She turns so she’s leaning against the armrest, sticking her feet on his lap. “I know what you meant. And we’ll come back; Danny made us swear we’d move back to Beacon Hills eventually.”

  “I think he’s jealous he’s not technically part of the pack.”

  She smiles, though it doesn’t last. Stiles watches her pull up her hair deftly, watching the low lamplight catch the highlights in her hair. He remembers when he couldn’t see himself end up with anybody but a strawberry blonde, shorter than him and with fire enough for the both of them. 

  He doesn’t know when he’d gotten over her.

  “Stiles,” she starts, chewing the inside of her lip a little bit. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask.”

  Feeling suddenly queasy, he can guess where she wants to go with this. “If this is about my dad, I really don’t want...” he trails off at her expression.

  “I thought not. The pack seems pretty tight-lipped about it.”

  He shrugs and looks away. “I think Derek told them to keep it on the down-low.”

  She kicks him gently. “They would have done it anyway, Stiles. They love you.”

  “But they don’t ask questions or anything.”

  “Because they respect your space, idiot. You don’t talk about their pasts either.”

  “Whatever you say, Lyds.”

  “You’re impossible.” She slouches down as far as she can, tugging at the leg of her sweatpants.

  Watching her, he gets that fuzzy feeling in his stomach that he gets when Isaac comes to him for advice, or Erica asks real quiet if he’ll paint her nails, or when Boyd hugs him after a long day. / _ Pack _ /, his mind supplies, and he smiles. 

  “Hey, has Derek talked to you about emissaries?” he finds himself asking, a hand on her ankle.

  She blinks at him curiously. “No, why?”

  “He said he was probably going to. It’s, uh, a position in the pack?” At her blank look, he explains, “A lot of packs have emissaries, which are, like, their mages? Like in MMOs?”

  Lydia rolls her eyes. “I’ll need more than that, Stiles.”

  “Shut up, okay? Derek hasn’t really told me much about it. It’s a druid or another magical human that kind of grounds the pack? Does all of the fancy magical shit that the pack might need. I think they also deal with negotiations with other supernatural groups?”

  “Don’t you do all of that?” she frowns.

  “Well, yeah, I guess, but I haven’t done training or anything. Just stuff for my spark.”

  “Why do you think I’d be good at it?”

  He raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t you be? Deaton told you you have some of the highest magical potential he’s ever seen. Plus, you’re tough as nails and Derek even listens to you.”

  “Derek listens to you, too.”

  “Psh, I wish.”

  Lydia pushes herself to sit up a little bit, looking serious. “Look, I know you can be an idiot sometimes, but this is ridiculous.”

  “What?” He frowns. “I honestly think you’d be good at it.”

  She sighs, but lets it drop. Mostly. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, Stilinski. But I’m too tired to deal with your bullheadedness right now.”

  “Wow, rude.”

  She flops back down. “You know-”

  “Why are you two still up?” Derek’s groggy voice interrupts, blinking at them from the doorway. He’s got a glass in one hand, and looks like he’d just woken up. 

  “Talking,” Stiles answers unhelpfully, but Derek seems to accept the answer, moving to the kitchen to fill the glass. 

  “You should go to bed soon. Your flight leaves pretty early.”

  “It might be easier to just stay up then,” Lydia muses, watching Derek closely. He doesn’t seem to notice her scrutiny, wandering back to the hallway. 

  “Your choice. Stiles, go to bed,” he orders, giving the human a meaningful look. Stiles flaps his hand, but Derek’s gaze just goes more stern. “I’m serious. We have a meeting with Deaton tomorrow, and I don’t want you falling asleep.”

  “Whatever, Der.”

  Lydia smiles cryptically at the exchange, and pats Stiles’ head sympathetically. “I’ll get him to bed.”

  “Thank you, Lydia. Goodnight.”

  “G’night,” Stiles waves him off as Lydia snickers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for all of your support. Your comments and kudos mean the world.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest, about a human being the lupa. Derek didn’t say that they had to be a ‘wolf, either...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this is awful. I'm so sorry.

  Stiles is waiting on the porch when Derek arrives in the pack car, a small paperback open in his hands, but he’s been too distracted to even look at it.

  Derek opens the passenger door for Scott, but his alpha is clearly uncomfortable, and hands the omega over to Stiles as soon as they reach the porch. He leaves Stiles with a soft touch to the shoulder, and a mumbled, “Good luck.”

  Scott stops in front of Stiles, looking far too young. He hunches over on himself, swimming in a too-large jacket, and looking at Stiles like he’d just fallen from a bike for the first time.

  “Has anyone told you you look like a kicked puppy?” Stiles blurts before he can think better of it, but the jibe seems to relax his friend a little. Stiles pulls him into a quick hug. “C’mon, you can tell me what happened while I get tea.”

  Stiles settles Scott at the island while he moves around the kitchen making tea, choosing whatever herbs his instincts dictate. He can feel Scott watching him intently, imploringly, but Stiles waits for him to make the first move.

  “So, uh...” Scott eventually starts, looking down at the tiled counter. “Everything is really... loud.”

  Pleased, Stiles leans against the stove to face him. “Yeah, it’s super overwhelming at first.” Scott nods. “Y’feel like you can’t focus on anything up close, yeah? Everything further away seems louder?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  Stiles shrugs instead of answering. “Unfortunately, that just takes getting use to. Derek teaches this trick to the betas where, if it’s a person, focus on their heartbeat instead of anything else, and it’ll be easier to hear what they’re saying.” He yanks the kettle off the burner before it starts whistling, pouring it into the two awaiting mugs. 

  He sits next to Scott, pushing one of the mugs towards him. Scott takes it and just sort of stares at the floating herbs, and doesn’t seem to mind the too-warm sides of the cup.

  Nudging him gently, Stiles takes a sip of his tea. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I went to the post office,” he says slowly. “I thought it’d be fine.”

  “I’m guessing everything was super loud?”

  “Yeah. I could hardly focus on the clerk.” Scott takes a tentative sip, but seems pleased with the combination of flavours, so Stiles gives himself a pat on the back. “There was a girl.”

  This pulls Stiles up short, actually not sure what he had been expecting. He carefully sets down his mug, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, sorry, Scotty, but that’s not really... my area of expertise.”

  Surprisingly, Scott takes it into stride quite quickly. “No, not like that. Nothing like that. More- Can ‘wolves, like, read people?”

  Stiles lets out a short breath of relief. “Like intent and stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That and more, buddy. Did she seem weird?”

  Scott hesitates. “She seemed kind of dangerous? Can ‘wolves read that?”

  “Of course,” he nods, pushing Scott’s mug closer to get him to drink more. “Was it just a feeling?”

  “No, she said she knew how to deal with werewolves?”

  That changes things. Stiles contemplates his tea for a moment, going through whatever he knows about people in town. “Maybe an Argent,” he mumbles to himself, but Scott doesn’t seem to hear him, downing the rest of his cup in one go. “I dunno, man. Did she talk to you?”

  “No... Barely looked at me, really.”

  “Then I wouldn’t worry.” He gives Scott a clap on the shoulder. “Okay, so you need to learn werewolf basics, and pack dynamics. Normally, I’d send you to Deaton, but you’re VIP ‘round here, so c’mon.”

  Confused, Scott follows Stiles down the hall to the library, which is blessedly empty of Isaac or Boyd. Stiles sits him in one of the big winged armchairs in the middle of the room and trots to the nearest bookshelf. 

  “Stiles, what’re you-”

  “I’m not gonna let Deaton make this all boring for you, buddy. And god, Derek is absolutely useless when it comes to this kind of stuff, so here.” He pulls a perfectly ordinary three-ring binder from the bottom shelf and brings it over to Scott, dropping it in his lap. “Think of this as your ‘Werewolves for Dummies’. I’ve been working on it since Jackson reared his great ugly head, and Danny said it was a good idea, so voila. You can read it on your own time, but we can go over the basics now, if you want.”

  Scott gingerly flips open the cover, but relaxes once he realises it isn’t just huge bricks of text, rather short little anecdotes with scribbled drawings Stiles had done in marker the year before. He even smiles a little.

  Grinning, Stiles sits on the small table next to Scott. “Lydia helped a little, but she’s still not as up to snuff on ‘wolves as I am.”

  Scott chuckles, turning the binder to get a better look at the picture Stiles had spent a good thirty minutes on. “What’s this?”

  “‘Supposed to show the difference between a beta and an omega. Didn’t really work.”

  “What about that one?”

  Stiles tilts his head to see. “Lupa.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Uhhh, how’d Derek put it? It’s like, a special position in the pack, someone the other members can turn to if the alpha isn’t around. Kind of like a first mate, I guess?”

  “Does Derek have one?”

  “Nah. Well, he told me that it was because the pack was small, but we’re not that small anymore so...”

  Scott looks up. “What else do they do?”

  “I’m not really sure, to be honest. They’re the alpha’s second in command, they take care of the pack, I dunno. Keep everyone together?”

  His friend frowns at him, a far more calculated look to his eyes than Stiles is use to. “You mean, like you do?”

  Surprised into silence, Stiles takes a long moment to answer, staring at Scott as if he’d grown a second head. Stiles hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest, about a human being the lupa. Derek didn’t say that they  _ had _  to be a ‘wolf, either...

  The silence stretches on too long before he forces out a laugh, flapping his hand. “Nah, not me, buddy. Derek said they’re the one the alpha trusts the most, yeah? Isaac’s been with him for years longer than me. I’d actually be surprised if he doesn’t eventually pick Isaac.”

  “Whatever you say, Stiles,” Scott sighs, sounding weirdly disappointed. Stiles doesn’t get the chance to ask, though, interrupted by Scott’s phone ringing. He answers it, speaking in rapid Spanish that Stiles can’t follow. He does pick up a few words, but they don’t make sense without the context of the caller.

  Stiles waits until he hangs up before asking, “So?”

  “My mom. She was worried since the car was home, and I wasn’t.”

  Stiles winces. “Whoops. I didn’t think about that. C’mon, I’ll get Derek to drive you back.”

  They stand, Scott tucking the binder under his arm on their way out of the library. Scott starts saying something, walking just ahead of Stiles, but Stiles doesn’t catch it, trying to blink away the fuzzy edge his vision takes.

  “Oh,” he mutters as the floor spins up to meet him. He doesn’t reach it, though, hands grabbing his arms before he can faceplant in the hallway, again. The grip is familiar, the voice trying to get his attention important, but his brain can’t figure out who it is until his sigh clears again, and he sees Derek gruffly shaking him.

  “Stiles!”

  He hears it now, everything much louder than it had been before. He winces, but lets Derek help him to the living room, pushing past an alarmed Scott. Once he’s safely on the couch, Derek squats down in front of him, a glare barely hiding his concern. 

  “You good?” he asks, not quiet enough for the other ‘wolves to not hear and come looking.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” Stiles mumbles as Erica pokes her head around the door, quickly following Scott into the room. Derek doesn’t look convinced.

  “Learn the ritual, Stiles.” Derek doesn’t swear, but he might as well have, the way it makes Stiles flinch guiltily. 

  “Yessir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for the comments and kudos and everything. They really do mean the world.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	49. Chapter 49 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _October 17th, 2013_
> 
> “No, I need... I need you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already had these three as poly before I realised I was poly. Sorry if this got rant-y/explain-y.

  Stiles is sleeping when his open laptop suddenly brightens with the Skype call. Having fallen asleep at his desk (again), with his face in a book with ageing paper (again), drooling all over his arm (again), Stiles jerks awake at the infernal jingle.

  He clicks accept without really thinking about it, vaguely registering Lydia’s username somewhere in the back of his mind, but faced with the sudden light in his otherwise dark room, it takes him until he’s done pawing the sleep from his eyes to realise it isn’t Lydia at all.

  Jackson looks back at him through the camera, cheeks pale and looking absolutely mortified. 

  Stiles checks the clock, then the username again, then looks back to Jackson. He opens his mouth several times before he gets out, “Do... you need Derek?”

  Jaw clenching, Jackson looks down and won’t meet his eye, his whole body leant to the side like he’s going to bolt. Stiles decides he isn’t awake enough for this, and has a goodnight on the tip of his tongue when Jackson interrupts,

  “No, I need... I need you.”

  Stiles chokes on his spit. Puts a hand to his forehead to check his temperature. Slaps his cheek a little to make sure he’s awake. 

  Jackson glares at him, lips tight. “Don’t look at me like that. I need some advice, alright?”

  “Am I dreaming?” Stiles still whispers, and gets a growl for his trouble. 

  “I’m flattered, Stilinski. But no.”

  “What knowledge could I have that Lydia wouldn’t?” he asks before he can stop himself. “And why did you call from Lydia’s account?”

  Jackson inhales a sigh and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d answer a call from me. And it... has to do with Lydia.”

  Stiles pauses for a moment and just observes his packmate, his expression, his body language. Stiles had grown up with his bullying and teasing; he knows what that looks like, and this isn’t it. And, okay, Stiles has said some pretty nasty things right back at Jackson, and he knows what he looks when he’s scared, and this. Well, this looks like that. 

  So he doesn’t make a joke, he doesn’t take a jab at Jackson’s hands. He rubs his eyes again to wake up a bit more, and when he looks up again, Jackson looks even more inclined to flee. “Sure, man, what’s up?” he says as normally as he can, and hopes Jackson doesn’t notice him treading carefully.

  The wolf doesn’t answer for a moment, fiddling with something on the desk that Stiles can’t see. He takes a deep breath. “What do you call it when... you’re in love with two people?”

  Stiles blinks.

  “Like, equally,” Jackson continues quickly, and won’t look at him again. “I tried googling it, but all I got was a bunch of ways to cheat, and that’s not...”

  “Okay, buddy, I’mma need you to start from the beginning. I’m really not awake yet.” Still not convinced he isn’t dreaming, Stiles watches Jackson inch towards the edge of the screen. “It’s Danny, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says, almost too quiet for Stiles to hear.

  “And Lydia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you like them both?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do they know?”

  “Probably.”

  Stiles hmms and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. So, I know I’m, like, the queerest of the queers.” Jackson nods. “But I also don’t know a whole lot about, like, terms and stuff. So I could be completely wrong. I think you’re poly?”

  “What does that mean?” Jackson looks completely out of his element, completely lost, and gosh, Stiles actually feels a bit bad, even though the last direct contact he’d had with Jackson had been when the wolf had thrown a fit when he realised Stiles was part of the Hale pack.

  “Uhm, whoo okay. Gimmie a sec.” He minimises the Skype window to pull up Google. Jackson waits patiently (for once) at the corner of his screen while he does some — by his standards — incredibly brief research. “Okay, so polyamorous means you’re basically anything but monogamous? Shit, okay, I’m super bad at explaining things, okay. You and Lydia are currently monogamous, right? You don’t see other people, whether for sex or other romance, right?”

  “Right,” he says hesitantly. 

  “So if you’re poly, you like... do the latter?”

  Jackson shifts uncomfortably. “So... I could date both of them? And not be cheating?”

  “As long as they’re both aware, yeah. Communication is key.”

  “But Danny is gay,” Jackson says, like it’s that’s the end of it.

  Stiles stifles a yawn, and checks his google search again. “Nothing says Danny has to date Lydia, bro. Uh, this site is describing it like a V? With you at the middle?”

  It takes a minute for Jackson to process this, drumming his fingers on the desk. Lydia’s desk, Stiles notices, and wonders where Danny and Lydia have gotten off to. 

  “What if they-”

  “They will, buddy. You guys are practically doing it already, it would just be making it official.”

  After a moment, Jackson looks back to him, hopeful and vulnerable and Stiles is suddenly pleased he’s a part of his pack. 

  “Yeah?” he asks, voice a little lighter than it had been before.

  “Yeah. Let me know how it goes, okay?” Stiles yawns. “Okay, now fuck off and let me go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so Jackson has a very very very special place in my heart, and Stackson is my lifeblood, so it was incredibly difficult not to let that bleed too much into this. All the same, I think Jackson would despise having to be close to Stiles at first, but then they'd just... kind of get along? They have similar humour and while I'll keep my headcanon about why Jackson hated him and Scott to myself, it's something super arbitrary and easily forgotten once there's the whole... pack thing. And being the queerest of the queers, everybody would come talk to Stiles about sexuality shit. Even if Stiles had absolutely no idea what to tell them. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm trying to ignore that the previous chapter ever happened.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahahfuckthischapterjfc
> 
> Cliche chapter is cliche. Hella cliche.

  If the pack notices Derek pacing just behind the couch where Stiles is napping, never too far away, no one mentions it, for which Derek is thankful. He’s got enough jumbled thoughts making his head heavy without worrying about why it  _ hurts _  to walk more than a couple of feet from their human. Without the pack teasing about it.

  Scott had left just after Stiles had fallen asleep, reluctantly, but when Melissa had called, he’d left pretty quickly. Derek tries to not think too much about the look Scott had sent Stiles as he stepped out the door.

  Lydia watches Derelk from across the room with a blank expression. He gets nothing from their bond, either, so lets her be, but her narrowed eyes make him even more nervous. 

  The pack’s attention snaps to Isaac when he jumps, just before Derek’s phone starts to ring.

  “Hello?” Derek answers without looking at the contact, more than half of him hoping it’s Deaton with some sort of explanation.

  “Hale,” Chris Argent says instead, voice tight. “We have a lead on your uncle.”

  The pack stills, Lydia with a delicate hand on Jackson’s ear to listen. Isaac shuffles closer to Derek, as if worried, but Derek is quite proud he manages to keep his emotions in check.

  “Derek?”

  “Sorry, we weren’t expecting a call so soon. Go on.” Derek shoos Isaac away, moving to the kitchen so he doesn’t wake Stiles.

  “I found some records on the Hales owning an old building on the West side of town—”

  “It was torn down when Laura and I moved to New York,” Derek interrupts, leaning against the island.

  Chris makes a sound of disagreement. “Any of the more official documents would have you believe so. The building is still there, I went and checked for myself. I have some hunters posted around the area, not close enough for a ‘wolf to know, but it’s only going to be so long before they’re discovered.”

  Derek rubs a hand over his face before responding, thinking it’s just their luck that there’s so much going on at once. “Thank you, Chris. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Keep me updated on your plans, would you? I don’t want any unnecessary deaths.”

  Maybe it’s the stress of Laura being missing, or the constant, near-painful thrum of Stiles’ bond, or maybe it just because it’s getting late and Derek needs a good night’s sleep, but he responds gruffly, “It wouldn’t be anything new,” before he hangs up. Like a child.

  Lydia speaks before he gets the chance to. “Even if he’s an alpha, we’re more than a match for him. Isaac, you stay with Stiles.” The ‘wolves look to Derek for confirmation, the alpha giving a short nod of agreement. 

  “We’ll shift once we’re there. Boyd, you’re driving.” 

  The pack rises and quickly makes their way outside, Lydia and Jackson staying back to grab her saddle. Derek stays in the kitchen, even when Lydia pauses in the doorway and looks between her alpha and Stiles. She meets Derek’s gaze for but a moment before joining her pack.

  Derek inhales slowly, carefully, then makes his way to the couch. He gently shakes Stiles awake, watching his human blink against the bright lights of the room. He quickly finds Derek and squints up at him.

  “Whathappen’?” he slurs, searching around the room for the pack. When he just finds Isaac, awkwardly standing in the doorway to the hall, he looks back to Derek. 

  “We’re going after Peter,” Derek tells him, wondering how much Stiles is actually going to remember. “Isaac is staying with you.”

  “No.”

  Derek sighs. “Stiles, you can’t come with—”

  “You guys need Isaac,” he interrupts, with much more clarity, pushing himself up a little bit. Isaac makes a small, confused sound. “He’s your best ears. You’re not making him stay with me.”

  Isaac takes a step into the room as his alpha looks up at him, looking ready to argue. “No, Isaac, he’s right. Send in Bo—”

  “No, stupiiiid.” Stiles drops back down onto the couch, rubbing his eyes before latching his fingers around Derek’s wrist, his hand still on Stiles’ shoulder. “Youneeeeed... everybody. M’fine.”

  “Stiles, you’re not fine. You’re out for the count. You can’t protect yourself.”

  “Who’s gunna come after li’l ol’ me?”

  “Stiles,” he sighs, but doesn’t get the chance to argue, Lydia rushing back into the house with her phone in her hand.

  “Derek, we have to go, Peter’s found out about the Argents.”

  Stiles has already fallen back to sleep.

//~//

  Subduing Peter is easier than Derek could have even hoped. He barely even has to do anything with Lydia at the head with her mountain ash. 

  And, for once, it isn’t even in the, “This was too easy” way. It was just easy, and Peter looks pissed enough strapped to a chair that Derek thinks they’re not falling for some trap.

  Lashed with wolfsbane ropes, Peter doesn’t even struggle, but Derek can see him seething from the center of his mountain ash circle, claws digging into the rough wood. The loft had been mostly empty, but Derek thinks Isaac had gotten a kick out of barreling the couch out of the way for the circle.

  Most of the pack has shifted back to human, but Jackson and Isaac sit near Peter with their haunches raised and fur on end. 

  Lydia is muttering some spell to soundproof the building, Derek thinks, but he’d never been able to decypher magical mumblings. He’d hoped that Lydia would be easier to understand than Stiles, but apparently it was a magic-thing, and not a Stiles-thing.

  Boyd has been trying to sort out a plan of getting Peter back to the Hale house with Derek, but he hasn’t really been listening. In their rush, they’d had to leave Stiles, and it all feels wrong. His wolf scratches at his ribcage desperately, growling and whining in equal measure, drowning out Boyd.

  Derek blinks, and he’s suddenly on his back, looking up at the decrepit ceiling.

  Boyd is slapping at his cheek, Isaac at his other side with wide eyes. “Derek, can you hear me?”

  He opens his mouth to respond, but then it hurts  to even _breathe_ , and something quite inhuman leaves his throat. Dread sinks into his bones, and between trying to stay conscious and trying to keep his pain from going through the pack bond, he manages to growl out,

  “Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Sorry about the chapters. Whoo eee. I'll get more up this weekend, hopefully.


	51. Chapter 51 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _July 6th, 2013_  
>     
> “Shouldn’t we still... like, talk about it? You’re like my—”
> 
> “If you call me your son, I’m going to rip you limb from limb.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I have not proof-read this chapter because it's longer than usual and I have a burrito that I really want to eat. Priorities, y'all. 
> 
> Fuck dialogue, to be quite fucking honest.

  As a pack rule, Stiles isn’t supposed to have headphones on unless he’s in the room with someone who can actually hear what’s going on, but the moments where Stiles is with one of them and doesn’t want to talk are rare. So seeing Stiles focussed on his the last of his classes at the kitchen table with headphones Derek has never seen had initially given him pause.

  And the silence while Derek is cooking dinner for the pack is... weird. Isaac is in his room doing God knows what, the rest of the betas out for a run. For _exercise_ , which is definitely not something Derek has taught them so he simply has to blame Jackson’s work ethic for corrupting his wolves.

  Stiles starts tapping his pencil against a notebook, drawing Derek back to the task at hand. The pack had had a rough full moon, and while Derek isn’t exactly making them all dinner to make up for it, it’s definitely something on the back of his mind as he puts the lid on the pan he has on the stove.

  He leans against the counter to wait for the meat to cook and, naturally, his eyes fall on Stiles. He’s got his back turned to Derek, but Derek still feels like he can read exactly what he’s feeling from the way the boy is just so physically expressive. He bounces his leg when he encounters a difficult problem, leans back in his seat when something seems too easy.

  Though, Derek really doesn’t know what to make of Stiles chewing on the end of his pencil. Has Stiles always had an oral fixation?

  Frowning, Derek turns back to the taco meat he has going in a pan that should be far too big for the number of people in the pack, and wonders how he’s still missing parts of Stiles. The human had certainly been with them long enough that Derek should have a pretty good idea of how he ticked, but thinking on it, Derek realises he really doesn’t.

  Maybe he should ask Isaac—

  “Fuck this shit,” Stiles snaps, yanking off his headphones and slamming his laptop closed. Derek watches him with a raised eyebrow as goes to the fridge to grab a dr pepper that the teens routinely insist on Derek buying, before Stiles hops up onto the island and gives Derek a look that dares him to argue.

  Smiling to himself, he shrugs and stirs in more beans. “There are chairs, you know,” he says, because he’s in charge of these ruffians and heaven help them if they don’t grow up with at least _some_  manners.

  Stiles reads him in an instant, barking out a laugh. “You’d make an awful parent, Der,” he says, taking a big swallow of his soda.

  “Why don’t you try controlling six teenagers while two of them are living out of state.”

  Stiles scoffs, “Like you can even pretend to control Lydia.”

  “Fine. Five teenagers.” Derek grabs the tortillas from the fridge with a snort. “I think you and Isaac count as two each.”

  “What? Rude. I’m nothing but an absolute peach.” Stiles just grins at the look Derek sends him over his shoulder.

  “Don’t you have homework to be doing?” he tries to say in Stiles’ “mom voice”, but it doesn’t quite fly, Stiles waving his hand nonchalantly.

  “Trying to get rid of me that quickly?”

  “If I wanted to be rid of you, I’d have dropped you on Deaton’s doorstep years ago.” Derek flicks a piece of cheese at him.

  Stiles catches it with a lopsided grin and lights it on fire with his Spark. It goes out pretty quickly and leaves the kitchen smelling like over-cooked cheese-its. At Derek’s persistent eyebrow, Stiles shrugs. “They want me to do a current event on my hometown and I decided I can skip one assignment out of fifty.”

  This pulls Derek up short, not expecting any answer, much less an honest one.

  Stiles looks down at his feet as he swings them, fidgeting with his soda cap. “It’ll be the only assignment I’ve skipped out of any of my classes,” he adds quickly, and won’t meet Derek’s eye. “That’s fine, right?”

  Derek inhales a short sigh and wonders if he’s come across as the type to give Stiles a hard time. “Stiles, if I had known you were doing absolutely every assignment, I would have forced you to take more breaks.”

  Stiles glances up. “You’re not mad?”

  “Should I be? If I was, Lydia would be giving us both a lecture on the importance of mental health.” He points his wooden spoon at Stiles. “After this class, you’re taking a break. Isaac has been whining about not being able to play videogames with you, and I’m— What?”

  Stiles is positively grinning at him, making his wolf fidget gleefully. “God, you’re such a softy, it’s almost disgusting.”

  “I am not a softy.”

  Stiles gives a great snort of disbelief. “Sure you’re not, Der. Tell that to the six kids you’ve adopted.”

  Derek gives up and turns back to dinner, shaking his head. “Whatever you say, Stiles.” And, because he has to, as the pseudo parent to all of these fucks, “Are we going to talk about why you don’t want to do the current event?”

  Even without looking, Derek knows Stiles deflates. “You know why I don’t want to.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t do this, Derek. You know exactly why.” Stiles swings out his foot to kick Derek’s leg, but he easily dodges.

  “Shouldn’t we still... like, talk about it? You’re like my—”

  “If you call me your son, I’m going to rip you limb from limb.”

  Surprisingly, Derek doesn’t think it’s because Stiles doesn’t want another dad after the whole vampire incident. “I was going to say brother, Stiles.”

  “Ew.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The day I want to be related to you is the day I agree to have a threesome with Boyd and Erica.”

  Derek chokes on his spit and whips around to look at him. Stiles is grinning again, though, and Derek has to realise that Stiles knows exactly how to get under his skin.

  He purses his lips and glares, but it just makes Stiles’ smile wider. “I don’t need to know what you all get up to when I’m not in the house.”

  “Aw, are you jealous?”

  “You’re trying to change the subject, Stiles. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  Stiles rolls his eyes and drains the bottle in his hands. “I don’t want to remember my dad, alright?” he says a bit scathingly. “I don’t want to find some fucking obituary for us or read about how the Argents managed to fucking capitalise on it all. It’s hard enough not having anything to even remember him by that it’s.” He lets out a harsh sigh and glares a bit back at him. “I thought you’d have understood that.”

  It’s a low blow, and they both know it. For some reason, it just makes Derek guilty, though. And after a moment of thought, he realises why.

  “Wait here,” he tells Stiles, turning off the stove and putting down his spoon.

  He heads down the hall to his room, and really, he isn’t surprised at all when he hears Stiles following close behind. With another shake of his head, Derek allows it, even when he opens his dresser with the human standing just inside the doorway.

  Derek has kept the sheriff’s badge in his underwear drawer for two years, hoping it’s the one place Stiles will keep sacred. Save for one, ahm, _rousing_  incident the previous Halloween, Derek has been mostly correct.

  And, okay, Derek doesn’t really know why hasn’t given it to Stiles before now. Maybe he was jealous this boy got to keep something of his family while Derek was left with nothing but a burned out husk of a home and a distant sister, or maybe Derek was just waiting for the right time, whatever that even means.

  He turns around to Stiles with an apology on his lips, but Stiles is standing right behind him, staring at the badge in his hand. He glances at Derek for a moment, licking his lips before he timidly takes the badge from him.

  He holds it like it’s going to crumble if he breathes too hard, standing too close to Derek, and not really close enough. His wolf chirrs in half satisfaction, half unrest, and Derek has to resist the urge to hug him as Stiles quickly scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Stiles—”

  “Gross, guys, not when I’m in the house,” Isaac says from the doorway, looking positively scandalised.

  Then Stiles is gone, tackling the wolf to the floor with a battle screech, and Derek is left alone. Isaac must have known how heavy the evening had gotten if he let the human tackle him at all, and he’s strangely grateful.

  He steps over his wrestling betas to finish dinner before Erica and Boyd got back from their run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahawhoopssorryforthis
> 
> Gosh someone sent the absolute best message to my tumblr and seriously. Thank you all.  
> ~Zoom Zoom


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lydia is savvier with mountain ash than you are,” Isaac speaks up, still in the doorway.
> 
> “Rude,” he scoffs. “I’m amazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a p big mistake back in chapter three, which has been fixed, but sorry for any confusion about Peter; the pack doesn't meet him until chapter 26. I'm also pretty sure I made a mistake somewhere else, but now I don't remember where 'cause I didn't write it down. I'll find it eventually.

  Stiles wakes to Derek crouching next to the couch, a hand on his head. His alpha is pale under his normal tan, and his expression gives nothing away, but from the way the rest of the pack is hovering, it must have been bad. 

  Derek reluctantly removes his hand as Stiles tries to sit up, only getting as far as his elbows before his muscles start to protest. 

  “Where’s Lydia?” he asks, voice scratchy as Derek sits completely next to him.

  “She’s watching Peter with Jackson,” Derek tells him, some of the betas dispersing to the kitchen uncomfortably.

  Stiles frowns, rubbing at his eyes in the hopes that’ll make the situation make more sense. “Why’d you guys come back?”

  On her way to the kitchen, Erica rubs his head briefly. “Derek had a premonition.”

  “If you could call it that,” Isaac mutters, standing stiffly in the door to the living room. 

  Derek sighs at the look Stiles sends him. “I’m fine, Stiles.”

  “I must disagree.”

  Stiles jumps at Deaton’s voice, the vet standing behind the couch and looking properly upset for the first time since Stiles had known him.

  “Is now really the time?” Derek asks tightly.

  “Yes, Derek, I think it is. I really must speak with you.”

  Stiles manages to push himself up, but still doesn’t quite understand what’s going on. He makes a small noise when his shoulder gives out a little, more confusion than hurt. 

  “You hit it on a chair,” Derek answers immediately, lips thin. “Deaton found you.” 

  Rubbing his shoulder, he tries to remember what had happened, but he draws a blank. “How long was I out?”

  “We can’t really be sure, but no more than twenty minutes.”

  From his tone, Stiles thinks Derek knows exactly how long he had been out and wonders how Derek could have known anything had happened in the first place.

  Derek seems to know what his thinking, and just gives a short shake of his head. He has to know Stiles isn’t going to let it drop, but fine, maybe it can wait. Derek looks tired and completely strung out, so Stiles will leave it be. For now.

  “At least I’ve got the ritual down now,” he says to no one in particular, Derek shifting just a bit closer to the couch. “How was… the Peter thing?”

  “Lydia is savvier with mountain ash than you are,” Isaac speaks up, still in the doorway.

  “Rude,” he scoffs. “I’m amazing.”

  Derek snorts and lets out a long breath, seeming to relax a little. “She did have a proper teacher, Stiles. Several.”

  “Excuse you, I was an awesome teacher.” The pack settles down a little in their banter, less on edge, but it just makes Deaton’s rising stress that more palpable. 

  Stiles does his best to ignore it, though, rubbing his eyes again to make himself wake up fully. Isaac hesitantly comes to join him on the couch, sitting so he can put his head on Stiles’ shoulder. Derek watches them closely, but says nothing.

  After a moment, Stiles clears his throat. “Okay, well, I’m fine now, so you should go take care of Peter. Not that I don’t trust Lydia.”

  Derek looks down to the carpet, going visibly uncomfortable with the thought. “They’d have called if anything had gone wrong.”

  Stiles frowns again and nudges his leg with his foot. He tries another tactic. “Do you really want Jackson to do the interrogating?”

  “It can wait,” Derek tries to say, convincing nobody.

  Isaac murmurs, “Stiles is right. We shouldn’t leave them for so long.”

  “I can stay with Stiles,” Erica offers, joining them in the living room with a sandwich and a glass of water. She hands them to Stiles, and looks ready to say something else, but Deaton cuts in loudly and with a vague tremor to his voice,

  “Derek, I must speak to you  _ now _ .”

  The pack stills, Deaton’s outburst leaving them nonplussed and silent. 

  The words had done their job, though, Derek straightening and finally focussed on Deaton. Maybe it’s the situation, or Stiles’ spark, but the uneasy feeling he gets turns his stomach into knots. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for your support!
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	53. Chapter 53 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _May 10th, 2014_
> 
> Stiles still says nothing, but he doesn’t look mad at Derek anymore. After several minutes of silence, Stiles hesitantly puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder, weaving his fingers into his fur.
> 
> It feels nice, so Derek doesn’t protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops this is awful.

  Derek thinks it’s funny that Stiles thinks he doesn’t know when the human sneaks out of the house in the middle of the night.

  It’s not every night, not even every week sometimes. Stiles is smart about it, smarter than Derek had thought he could be: he sneaks out the window to avoid the ‘wolves, to skip the creaky stairs and the creaky front door. He has a specific pair of shoes to wear into the woods so the ‘wolves can’t smell that he had been there at all.

  Derek knows Stiles doesn’t know exactly how an alpha’s bond works; he knows when the pack is awake, when they’re too far away from him to hear their heartbeats. 

  But Stiles hadn’t snuck out since the witch incident the year before, so when Derek suddenly can’t hear Stiles in the den, he jerks awake with enough force to knock the lamp from his nightstand.

  He moves quickly to Stiles’ room, stifling his panic long enough to realise what the open window means when he pushes open Stiles’ door without knocking. 

  Stiles is at the edge of the treeline when Derek moves aside the curtains.

  With a sigh, Derek rubs a hand over his face and has half a mind to go back to bed —to read, not sleep; he wouldn’t be able to until Stiles was back— but then he sees Stiles’ jacket on the floor next to his closet. And it isn’t exactly raining right now, but it’s  _ May _ , and  _ May _ means frost on the ground in the mornings.

  Really, he isn’t surprised that Stiles had left the jacket behind, knowing Stiles probably just didn’t think about it, but what kind of alpha would he be if he let Stiles freeze to death on his watch?

  He closes the window, and decides against getting dressed. Instead, he shifts by the front door and carefully carries Stiles’ coat in his mouth as he trots for the forest. 

  Derek had never asked why Stiles took these little walks, but he thinks they started after Stiles discovered his spark. Part of him wonders if Stiles use to come out here to practice, but the other part knows Stiles gets antsy being in the den all the time; he just wishes Stiles could find a safer alternative to expend energy.

  It’s easy to follow Stiles scent into the trees, but Stiles is waiting not even a yard in, watching Derek approach with a complete lack of surprise. Derek halts, nonplussed, and watches the human watch him. 

  Stiles sighs and holds his hand out for the jacket. “I was coming back to get it,” he mumbles as he yanks it on, Derek’s nose wrinkling at the sight of Stiles’ fingers, red from the cold already. “Don’t give me that look, Derek, not right now.”

  Derek chuffs and gently nudges Stiles’ shoulder with his snout, but he pushes Derek away a little bit. He looks like a wreck, looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, and Derek had planned on returning to the house, but...

  Stiles looks away. “I’m fine; I just needed to get out for a bit, alright? I wasn’t going to go far.” At Derek’s raised eyebrow, Stiles groans and shoves at him again. “Fuck off, man. Not tonight. Please?”

  Normally, Derek would give him his space, but it’s one of the coldest nights they’ve had in a while, and it’d been so long since Stiles had felt the need to sneak out that Derek thinks something must be wrong. More wrong than usual.

  Cocking his head, Stiles seems to know exactly what Derek is thinking. Stiles takes a moment to get his expression under control, but it doesn’t quite work; he still looks pissed. “Fine,” he hisses, turning to start walking. “Just. No judgy eyebrows, okay?”

  Derek chuffs again and trots to follow him.

  He stays a couple of steps behind Stiles as the human leads him on a path Derek can’t see, but Stiles’ seems to know by heart. The further they get from the house, the more Stiles seems to relax, tension leaking out of his tightly-wound shoulders.

  A mile or so into the preserve, Stiles pauses to toe out of his converse, knotting the laces together to carry them. Derek watches him, frowning as well as he can with a snout, and marvels at the way Stiles goes almost boneless as the pads of his feet touch the wet grass. 

  Derek wants to protest, worried about frostbite and colds and broken glass from teenagers that come to the preserve to party, but Stiles has his eyes closed, almost like he’s forgotten Derek is there. His breathing is easy in a way Derek doesn’t think he’s ever seen, so Derek does nothing.

  Stiles looks over his shoulder at Derek after a moment, and smiles a little. Derek snorts happily and moves to walk beside him as Stiles starts to follow this invisible path again.

  Stiles still says nothing, but he doesn’t look mad at Derek anymore. After several minutes of silence, Stiles hesitantly puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder, weaving his fingers into his fur. 

  It feels nice, so Derek doesn’t protest.

  “Sorry for snapping,” Stiles eventually mumbles, grip tightening a little. Derek shakes his head and nudges him gently. “And thanks. For walking with me. It’s nice.” Stiles pauses, smirking. “Thank god you had shifted, or I probably would have punched you, to be honest.”

  Derek rolls his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh so many nice messages thank you all so much
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tugs at one of Isaac’s more unruly curls, and smiles when Isaac’s gaze focusses on him. “Once this shit is all over,” he mumbles, loud enough that Erica looks up. “I think we should start leaving dead animals in Derek’s bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not dead, but seriously: fuck this chapter.

  To say the least, Stiles is pretty pissed.

  The rest of the pack glares at the door to the library, because Deaton had used a  _ spell _  to make sure none of them could understand what he was speaking to Derek about, their words garbled even though they can still hear them. 

  Sure, the pack might not really tell each other everything, but, to their knowledge, there had never been outright  _ secrets _ . Not like this.

  Isaac is visibly upset, more so than usual, and is curled up around Stiles on the couch. Stiles plays with his hair and wishes he could help more, but he’s training every sense his pounding head can spare to try and glare a hole into the door. 

  And Derek has been in there for almost fourty minutes. From their raised voices, Stiles would have expected Derek to storm out by now, to be honest. Stiles has watched his temper settle over the past few years, but it’s nothing if not short, especially when it comes to Stiles.

  He winces a little at the thought and looks down at Isaac. The ‘wolf’s eyes are blank as they watches the rise and fall of Stiles’ stomach, and it makes Stiles’ heart ache.

  He tugs at one of Isaac’s more unruly curls, and smiles when Isaac’s gaze focusses on him. “Once this shit is all over,” he mumbles, loud enough that Erica looks up. “I think we should start leaving dead animals in Derek’s bed.”

  It gets him the smallest of smiles from Isaac, as they both remember the unholy horror of Derek finding a dead mouse on his pillow. It hadn’t even been one of the betas’ fault; it had just crawled up there and died, but now they know one of Derek’s weak spots.

  Isaac pulls out Stiles’ phone from Stiles’ hoodie before it even starts ringing, handing it to the human without saying anything.

  With a roll of his eyes, he answers. “Hey, Lyds.”

  Lydia lets out a short sigh of relief. “You good?”

  Stiles resumes his petting of Isaac’s hair and sends another glare to the library. “I’m always good.”

  “And Derek?”

  “Being an ass.”

  He can faintly hear Jackson say something, but he can’t make it out. “Stiles,” Lydia cuts Jackson off. “What’s going on?”

  “Deaton pulled him aside and they won’t let us listen in. I think... I think it has something to do with me,” he admits quietly, Isaac tightening his grip on him a little.

  She responds sharply, “Why?”

  “‘Dunno. That’s a lie.” He sighs. “Deaton had come to the den to talk about whatever he’s figured out, y’know? And it sounded like he understood a little more about this... thing. With Derek.”

  He can hear her frowning. “That does sound like him. And he’s got a spell up to keep you from listening?”

  “Yup,” he pops the ‘p’.

  “It kinda felt like Derek knew what was coming,” Isaac speaks up, pushing himself to sit next to Stiles and talk close enough to the phone for Lydia to hear. 

  “Oh, that sounds like Derek as well.”

  As if he had heard them talking shit about him, Derek opens the library door with a bit more force than necessary and strides into the room. 

  They know he’s pissed, and under that, afraid, but oddly, they don’t get anything else from him. Not even Stiles can read anything more from his eyebrows, or the way he clenches his fists.

  Deaton follows behind, showing more emotion than he normally does, but just as unreadable. He stands just over Derek’s shoulder as the alpha holds out his hand for Stiles’ phone.

  Stiles passes it to him without really thinking about it, just as susceptible to an alpha glare as the ‘wolves, but regrets it when he remembers it’s  _ Lydia _ on the other end.

  “Lydia, I need you back here,” Derek says into the receiver, and, as expected, gets a huff in response.

  “Yessir, and I’ll just drag your deranged uncle behind the car, shall I?”

  Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “I trust him with you more than anyone. Bring him back here, we need to talk.”

  “There better be an explanation, Hale. The pack’s already on the fritz, they don’t need more secrets from you.” With that, she hangs up.

  The rest of the pack start bombarding Derek with questions, but Stiles just looks up at his alpha and feels his heart complete its journey to his feet.  _ More secrets _ . 

  Derek sends him a guilty glance like he knows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll get to the all the comments y'all have been leaving me. Know that they have been read and reread and appreciated and been a motivation. Thank you all so much. 
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	55. Chapter 55 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _August 8th, 2014_
> 
> “I what?”
> 
> “You know what, let’s talk about this when you’re not in shock. Now c’mon; I hear the pizza guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think y'all know how many times I had to rewrite this chapter. I stf this chapter is the reason I haven't uploaded since, what, June? But, I'm actually sort of glad, because this version is definitely the best I've had, and the others were just awful. 
> 
> Anyways, I'll get to responding to all of your wonderful comments now! Special thanks to _Commissioner_Batman123_ for being the kick in my ass to write today; I don't know if I would have ever got to this otherwise.

  Like most of his magical feats, it happens mostly by accident. 

  Having just run five miles from a hoard of horny Gnoph-keh —as  _ humans _  because if Gnoph-Keh hate anything more than humans, it’s wolves— the pack is flopped all over the living room, not caring if they’re actually on the furniture or not. Isaac is taking up most of the couch, Erica leaning back against it; Derek has claimed the armchair, which leaves the floor for the rest of them.

  Stiles, hardly as fit as his packmates, is already dozing from where he’s face-planted on the carpet in between Jackson and Danny. Even in Beacon Hills August is warm, so the pack does not huddle nearly as close as they perhaps normally would, but with the adrenaline and heightened sense of danger, they are never quite out of arm-reach either; Danny’s hand is but inches from Stiles’ shoulder.

  It can’t have been more than ten minutes when Isaac groans out, “Piiiizzaaa.” 

  Stiles rouses himself at the ‘wolves’ grunts of agreement, and puts his two-cents in with a slurred, “Pepperoni.”

  Derek lets out a breathless laugh, and doesn’t move. “Order it yourself,” he grunts. 

  “But daaad,” Isaac whines, and Derek throws a pillow at him. 

  Snorting, Danny pushes himself up to his feet. “I got it. Two Pepperoni and a Hawaiian?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, heading to the kitchen as he pulls out his cellphone. 

  Stiles listens to his garbled ordering, and wonders if he can get away with a nap before the pizza arrived. 

  “Jackson!” Danny calls, sounding annoyed, “you didn’t do the dishes!”

  Jackson groans beside Stiles. “If he makes me get up, I’m going to skin him,” he mutters to no one in particular; Stiles laughs into the carpet. 

  “Jackson.”

  “Make Boyd do it! You always complain when I do it anyway,” he huffs. 

  Erica laughs, rolling over to lay down. “The only one worse at washing dishes is Stiles.”

  “Hey,” Stiles protests without any venom. He lifts his head a bit as Boyd gets up, the ‘wolf shaking his head.

  “You’re all children,” he tells them, flicking Isaac on his ay around the couch. 

  Muttering, “I’m older than you,” Stiles hunkers back down. 

  Derek and Erica eventually rise as well to help set the table, and Stiles basks in the relative quiet. He’s pretty sure Jackson is actually asleep, because he doesn’t even flinch when Isaac drops a pot. 

  The pack must realise how tired they are, lowering their voices so Stiles can barely hear them in the living room. They all seem cheerful enough, but Stiles has no idea what they have to be happy about; the Gnoph-keh are still out there, and the pizza is most decidedly  _ not _  here yet. 

  He thinks he catches Isaac saying his name, and is immediately suspicious.

  “Jackson.” Stiles shoves at his shoulder. “Jackson.”

  “What.” he grinds out, not opening his eyes. 

  “What are they saying about me?”

  He cracks one eye open to glare at him. “What?”

  “I can’t hear what they’re saying.” Stiles frowns at him in what could be argued as a pleading sort of way. 

  Jackson may act like he’s above it all, but even he grumbles under Stiles’ pout. 

  He groans. “They’re mostly saying you’re a white boy.”

  “What, why?”

  “‘Can’t handle spice.”

  Stiles scoffs in offence, and almost pushes up onto his elbows, but quickly decides against it when his muscles protest quite loudly. “What else are they saying?”

  “I’m not your middleman, cracker.”

  “Jackson, you’re just as white as I am. Arguably whiter.”

  “You’re almost 100% Polish, dude.”

  “And you’re almost completely Dutch!”

  Danny sticks his head into the room and glares at them. “Do I need to separate you two?”

  They flip him off.

  Laughing, Danny ducks back away and announces something to the kitchen that Stiles still can’t hear, but it must have been about him, because even  _ Derek _  laughs in response.

  “Jaaacksooon,” he whines.

  “Fuck off.”

  Stiles purses his lips and stares at his packmate for a moment, weighing the risk of evisceration. Then, before he can chicken out, he leans over and grabs Jackson’s ear.

  He had  _ intended _  to bait Jackson into maybe kick-starting his adrenaline again, but as soon as Stiles touches him, something… odd happens. 

  Sound suddenly explodes, and Stiles swears he can hear the plumbing running under the floors. In the kitchen, he can pick out every voice, every inflection. He can hear Danny telling Isaac that his fly is undone, and can hear Erica arguing quietly with Boyd about whether shredded or grated parmesan is better.

  Stiles jerks his hand back with a small sound of surprise and terror, and the overwhelming noise suddenly stops.

  Jackson is staring at him with wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth. “Stiles, what the  _ hell _  was that?”

  Stiles doesn’t answer, shoving himself up onto his knees and feeling rather clammy. He rubs his face, then just looks at his hands for a moment. He flexes his fingers, rolls his wrists, but nothing happens. 

  “Stiles?”

  He nearly jumps out of his skin at Jackson’s voice, and dare he say it, he looks concerned. 

  Stiles clears his throat. “I, uh, have no idea. You felt it too?”

  He nods slowly. “It felt like you were in my head.”

  “Oh, well, rest assured I was not.”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  Stiles fidgets, looking at his hands again. “Hearing. I think.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that.” Jackson sits up slowly, like he’ll spook Stiles.

  He laughs shortly. “Neither did I. I didn’t even… know you could do that?”

  Jackson is quiet for a moment, then gently ruffles his hair. “Congrats, cracker; you just invented a new spell.”

  “I what?”

  “You know what, let’s talk about this when you’re not in shock. Now c’mon; I hear the pizza guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M'still trying to keep Stackson from bleeding in, but heaven knows I'm failing. 
> 
> Thank you all so so so much for your support these past few months. It literally means so much to me that people are still reading and waiting for updates and I'm just so flattered. Thank you.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just a little happiness charm, s’all, love.” She waves a hand and returns to her dough. “It’ll be gone by morning.”
> 
> “That’s a shame.” Allison leans over to kiss her cheek again.

  The pack hadn’t had much use for the unfinished basement until now: with their living practically on top of each other despite the space of the den, there hadn’t really been a reason for them to expand to the basement, one of the only remaining remnants of the old Hale house.

  But now, it serves as a perfect dungeon of sorts for Peter, strapped to a chair in the middle of a mountain ash circle. Stiles is having vivid Supernatural flashbacks, and hates Isaac for convincing him to watch it.

  He thinks he might hate Derek a bit more, as they sit gathered around the living room. He won’t look any of them in the eye. Maybe he’s just tired, but Stiles sort of wants to punch him.

  Despite his exhaustion, Stiles has risen to his feet in hopes of staving off some of his manic energy, stood as far from his alpha as he can get with the pack so close together. Crossing his arms, he looks right at Derek to tell him that he has most definitely noticed that Derek is avoiding him specifically.

  “I did not want to bring this to your attention until I was absolutely sure,” Deaton is saying, his hands raised placatingly, though this does little to calm the pack. “But I’m afraid I cannot do this on my own.”

  Stiles tears his eyes from Derek to glare at Deaton. “Figures,” he mutters.

  Deaton doesn’t seem to hear him. “I know of a spell that would help us be sure, but as a druid, I—”

  “I thought you didn’t want me doing blood magic,” Stiles interrupts, because Deaton has been adamantly against straining his spark from the beginning.

  “Desperate times, I’m afraid, Mr. Stilinski. Especially with your current condition, I would not ask unless we had any other choice.”

  “I’m sorry, Alan, but I’m a little lost.” Lydia doesn’t look sorry at all, her toes tapping dangerously against the floor. “What exactly are you bringing to our attention?”

  He meets her gaze evenly, which is quite the feat, Stiles thinks. “Nothing, for the moment. It is a steep accusation, and I fear the ramifications if I’m wrong.”

  It isn’t very hard to connect the dots.

  Stiles sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “So you know who the vamps are?”

  “I know who they could be. Derek agrees that we should be sure before I explain everything.”

  He clearly realises this isn’t the smartest thing to say at the moment, looking around the pack as they still.

  Stiles turns his glare back to derek. “Oh, he does, does he?”

  “Stiles, please,” Derek says, as if it pains him. But he still won’t look at Stiles. “Not now.”

  Clenching his teeth, Stiles tries to ignore that he can _feel_  how much this is fucking with Derek, because being angry is easier.

  He kicks his heel at the floor for a moment. “Fine. But after all of this, you’re explaining everything, alright?”

  Derek nods quickly in agreement, though Deaton doesn’t seem as keen.

  “I can only promise to explain as much as I can,” Deaton amends. “There is still much we do not know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard your spiel before, thanks.” Stiles pushes his hips off of the end table he’s leaning against. “What do you need me to do then?”

  Deaton frowns with something that could be guilt if Stiles didn’t know him better. “Unfortunately, we must do this at the Nemeton, so I suggest that you prepare yourself.”

 

//~//

 

  Allison grinds her teeth and hopes that Kate doesn’t notice. She loves her aunt, she really does, but sometimes she spews a little too much supernatural eugenics bullshit for Allison to take lying down.

  And her mom only fuels it, engaging Kate across the table while Allison and her dad exchange looks out of the corner of their eyes.

  “Chris, you should really do something about the ‘wolf population,” Kate is saying when Allison excuses herself to the kitchen halfway through desert, her dad fumbling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem like a poor excuse for a hunter.

  The cook greets Allison with a wave, but seems distracted with her arms elbow-deep in a bowl of bread dough.

  “Evening, Lettie,” Allison kisses her on the cheek, trying to sneakily duck under her arm to swipe a finger through the cinnamon filling sitting by.

  Lettie swats her away. “Miss Kate’ll have your head if she catches you,” she scolds, but Allison only simpers and hops onto the nearest clean counter.

  “She’s a little distracted right now, Lettie.”

  This pulls Lettie’s lips into a frown, her arms slowing her mixing. Her son is a supe, Allison thinks, but hasn’t ever asked what; you don’t ask those kind of questions when you’re an Argent.

  Allison swings her feet, leaning into her palms and frowning at the floor. “Do you know why she’s back, Lettie? She’s stayed away for so long, it’s...”

  Lettie hums. “I don’t think it’s anything good, if you’re really asking me. Even amongst your folks, she’s been an odd egg. ‘Doesn’t like our kind much.”

  Allison glances up. “You know I’ve never asked, but...”

  Reaching over to pat Allison’s knee, Lettie smiles tightly. “Some sort of fae, I’ve never known what. ‘Can do little things like this,” she traces her finger on the back of Allison’s hand, a little glowing smiley face drawn in its wake.

  Allison blinks down at it until the glowing fades, and feels a little giddy with warmth. She jerks her head up to smile at Lettie, knows a spell when she sees one. “What did you do?”

  “Just a little happiness charm, s’all, love.” She waves a hand and returns to her dough. “It’ll be gone by morning.”

  “That’s a shame.” Allison leans over to kiss her cheek again.


	57. Chapter 57 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _December 29th, 2010_
> 
> “Stiles, you’re safe, you’re safe, I’m a friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the muse is with me tonight

  With an armful of screaming Stiles, Erica is glad she’d kicked the rest of the pack outside. Stiles barely recognises her: she’d hate to see how he’d react to Boyd or Derek.

  And even with her werewolf strength, she has trouble keeping Stiles on the couch and not bolting for the door. It’s even worse when she can smell that his wounds have reopened.

  “Stiles, please,” she pleads, not sure if he can even hear her over his screaming. He takes a swing at her head, and she grapples for the arm, pinning it back to the couch. 

  His throat, blessedly, gives out on him and just looks up at her in wide-eyed panic, mouth moving but only a choked, soft screeching noise comes out.

  Clenching her teeth at the sight, Erica manages to get his other arm pinned under her, though she gets a knee to the crotch for her trouble. She pins his legs with her knees.

  Finally, whatever panic-induced adrenaline that fueled him gives out as well, and he slowly slumps against the couch, chest heaving and wild gaze darting around the room. And Erica must know how it looks, burned-out and falling apart and Stiles doesn’t have a clue where he is—

  “Stiles, you’re safe, you’re safe, I’m a friend.” 

  His gaze jerks back to her, and even as he blinks in an attempt to focus, he wriggles under her in a bid to free himself. 

  “My name is Erica, we went to school together, remember? You wanted me to join the swim team when we were eight and I couldn’t because of my epilepsy but you’d still take me to the pool and show me how to jump off the big board, remember?” Stiles’ struggling slows again, and he closes his mouth to swallow. Erica surges onwards, “We always had science together and even though we’d never talk we’d always get the same answers on tests and the teachers thought we were cheating, and—”

  “You can stop,” Stiles gets out, hoarsely, voice as shaky as his hands. 

Blinking, Erica pulls back a little, and dares to release his arms; she doesn’t get off of him though, worried he’ll try to run. Belatedly, she realises he’s crying, and feels something inside her crumble. 

He sucks in a breath, looks anywhere but her. “Where am I?” 

  She almost doesn’t hear him. “At the old Hale house. We... we found you in the woods.” Nodding, he scrubs a hand over his face. “Do you remember what happened?”

  He nods once more, but only once, and Erica knows not to push. “If I get up, do you promise not to run? You’re pretty banged up.” 

  “Yeah,” he says wetly, and still won’t meet her eye. 

  Erica carefully gets up, trying to be as gentle as possible, and settles onto the floor next to the couch. Stiles immediately tries to sit, but she pushes him back down. “No, no moving. You’ve done enough damage to all the work Boyd did on you.”

  “There’re more?” His voice cracks.

  Erica chews her lip for a moment, then hesitantly brushes a hand over his forehead and into his hair. “Just a few. But we’re friends, Stiles, you’re safe here, you’re—”

  “I said you could stop.” Erica snaps her mouth closed, and Stiles winces guiltily. “But. But thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Stiles.” 

  He offers the smallest of smiles in return.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just actually planned the rest of this, and had to cut some big stuff out 'cause things are happening too fast to fit them in in any way that makes sense. I think I mentioned ages ago that it's my plan to completely rewrite this once I'm done, and I honestly think I will, because holy fuck did I not plan the pacing for this at fuckin' all. There's still a ways to go with this one, but well. Look forward to that, maybe? Ahh I don't know what I'm doing.

  “This is a horrible idea,” Derek says to no one in particular, arms crossed tightly over his chest as Isaac helps Stiles hobble towards the Nemeton. 

  Stiles ignores him, a bit bitterly, because, if it were up to him, Derek wouldn’t even be there; he had of course been overruled, by everyone including Deaton. But if he’s just going to gripe and not come within three feet of Stiles, he really doesn't understand why he needs to be there at all. 

  Stumbling a bit under the weight the Nemeton seems to force down on him, Stiles pulls Isaac to a stop just before the giant stump that’s apparently causing all of their problems. The strange magic of the place itches under his skin, warning him from getting any closer.

  Deaton joins them and even looks a little apologetic. “This will take almost everything you have, Mr. Stilinski; have you prepared yourself?”

  Stiles just grunts, eyeing the Nemeton warily. Then, after a moment, “This won’t kill me, right?”

  Behind them, Derek growls, daring Deaton to say otherwise, but the vet merely shrugs. “I cannot be sure of anything, but no, this should not cause you any permanent harm.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Stiles mutters, pushing at Isaac a little to stand on his own. Isaac doesn’t move from his side, though, one arm slightly outstretched as if waiting for him to topple over. “I’m fine,” he tells him, but Isaac doesn’t look convinced,

  “I’ll believe that when this is all over.”

  Stiles shakes his head. “Alright, Deaton, what do I need to do?”

  Deaton produces a white-handled knife from nowhere, and hands it to him hilt-first. Stiles hesitates a moment, clenching his hand around the stumps of his remaining fingers, then gingerly takes it.

  “I am sorry that it’s come to this,” Deaton says.

  “No you’re not.” Stiles slides the blade over his palm and cringes at the cliché. A foreign power kicks at his chest and he lets out a small gasp, but bats Isaac’s hand away. “I’ve got this,” he mutters. He takes the last few steps forward, feeling his pack do the same, and presses his bleeding palm to the Nemeton’s trunk.

  His vision narrows until all he can see is his hand, knuckles white. The sounds of the forest, his pack, fade until it’s just the pounding of his heart and the odd... throbbing that he  _ thinks _  is the Nemeton. 

  Then, someone’s voice, loud and sharp, cutting through the cotton in his ears,

   “ _ I told you it wouldn't work _ .” 

  Stiles whips around, unable to take his hand off of the Nemeton, and freezes. The forest around him is drained of any colour, a washed-out grey that makes his eyes itch, and his pack is nowhere in sight.

  Instead, there are half a dozen or so people he doesn’t recognise, crowded around a body on the ground. 

   “ _ I thought an alpha was supposed to work _ ,” one of them hisses, glaring at another across the circle.

   “ _ I told you everything I know _ ,” the other bites back.

  The smallest of the group, looking barely older than Stiles, latches a hand onto their nearest companion. “ _ What are we going to do now? There isn’t a spark within a continent, and that alpha’s always got their emissary in grabbing distance. _ ”

  The first one that spoke opens their mouth to say something else, but Stiles doesn’t get the chance to listen before the world snaps back into colour, Stiles’ pack surrounding him as if their place hadn’t been taken a moment before. 

  Stiles looks up, and Derek is  _ right there _ , hovering in his space with a pained look on his face. 

  Stiles swallows and peels his hand from the Nemeton, bringing it to his chest. “Did you guys see that?”

  Isaac shakes his head. “You went cross-eyed and said something in Greek, but that’s it.”

  “Ah, well, the vamps definitely have Laura,” he manages to get out before he’s tipping forward into Derek’s chest and passing out.

 

  Waking up is one of the hardest things Stiles has had to do since he left his dad behind in their burning house. Harder than the actual spell, to be honest. 

  Eyelids glued shut, Stiles takes stock of his limbs, and extremities. For one terrifying second, he forgets he's supposed to have eight fingers; luckily, that seems to be all that's missing. 

  Then, he takes stock of what's there that shouldn't be. There's an actual solid lump just under his sternum that wasn't there before; his bond with the Nemeton, he thinks. Someone is breathing on his neck, like they're pressed as close as they can possibly be, and— and, well, Stiles hates himself a little bit because he knows who it is just from the cadence of their breath. In fact, he hates himself a whole lot, and lets his exhaustion drag him back under, rather than face this realisation. 

 

  Derek is petting his head, Stiles notices as his next waking thought. 

  And fuck him, it feels really really nice and he can almost forget his whole body feels like it's been burned to shit, and that if he didn't currently have a fucking red string of fate to a giant stump, Derek probably wouldn't be touching him at all. 

  Gingerly opening his eyes, it takes Stiles all of two seconds to realise  _ he's in Derek’s bed _ . And Derek is sitting by his waist on the edge of the mattress, like he's been there for quite some time. He's looking down at Stiles like he... Actually, Stiles doesn't know how to describe that look. 

  “Am I dead,” he mutters before he can stop himself, and Derek lets out a relieved little breath.

  “No, although you really fucking tired. Deaton says your heart stopped for a while there.”

  Stiles raises an eyebrow at him. “‘Deaton says?’”

  Derek gives a single shake of his head, expression forcibly blank. “Don't. Not when the pack can hear you.”

  Stiles is thoroughly lost now, but decides it isn't worth frying his brain any more than it is. So he drops it and does his best to push himself into a sitting position. Looking down at his arms, he's actually surprised not to find them covered in blisters. His breath leaves his chest in a huff. 

  “How...?”

  “It's only been a couple of hours,” Derek tells him, and Stiles misses the feeling of his hand on his head. “The rest of the pack is outside.”

  “I know.” And he does, he can feel them, just down the hall, all anxiously waiting in the living room. “Deaton’s still here?”

  Derek takes his unfounded knowledge of this into stride, shrugging slightly. “He feels guilty.”

  Stiles snorts. “He should. That fucking hurt.”

  Derek’s frown is back in an instant, and Stiles has to push aside the instinct to smooth the wrinkles from between his brows. “Are you—”

  “I'm fine, Derek.”

  “Deaton doesn't think so.”

  Stiles snaps a glare to him. “And you trust him over me?”

  “I trust that you'd lie to my face even if you were bleeding out,” Derek shoots back, no hesitation. “And I know you're in pain, Stiles.”

  “‘Doesn't mean I'm not fine.”

  “Stiles,” Derek sighs, raising a hand like he's going to touch him, but dropping it half way.

  Stiles swallows, suddenly feeling like he needs to run, to get as far from this situation as possible. “I know you don't want to be my anchor,” he hears himself saying, and can't look away fast enough to miss the hurt expression Derek sends him. 

  “Stiles—”

  “Oh god, please don't argue,” Stiles says quickly, feeling sick. “Don't lie and—”

  Derek growls then, loud and grating, and Stiles can't remember a time when Derek was this angry with him. He does touch Stiles now, grabbing his wrists to pull his hands away from his face. “I know it's my fault, for running off like that, but it's not because— I don't— It's not  _ you _ , Stiles.”

  “What, ‘it's not you, it's me?’”

  “What Derek is  _ trying _  to say, is that he's scared what'll happen to you if he fucks it up,” Isaac says from the doorway, making the two of them jump. Derek lets go of Stiles abruptly, like he's been burned, and Stiles feels it, like a rubber band against his wrist. 

  He feels  _ awful _  again, like any energy he'd had is gone, like there's actual fire grabbing at the skin of his arms and chest. And he hates it, because this really does mean Derek is his anchor, whether he likes it or not. 


	59. Chapter 59 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think he's still figuring things out.”
> 
> “What, that he's pan as all fuck?”
> 
> Erica laughs again, loudly. “Let him figure it out, Stiles.”

  “Boyd is a saint.”

  Erica barks out a laugh and adjusts her grip on Stiles’ foot. “You clearly haven't dealt with him after Isaac spikes his coffee.”

  With a hum, Stiles tries to inspect Erica’s paint job on his toes, but she slaps his shin before he can properly move to look. He huffs and sinks back down into the couch, clutching one of the throw pillows to his chest. “I thought werewolves couldn't get drunk,” he muses, flexing his toes just to fuck with her. 

  “Stop that,” she snips. “And I meant with redbull.”

  “Werewolves can't get drunk, but caffeine affects them?” He frowns at her. 

  Erica releases his foot to grab the other, and Stiles catches a glimpse of the colour she’d chosen: a tawny green that looks suspiciously like Derek’s eyes. “It doesn't do anything to me,” Erica is saying, and doesn't see the unimpressed glare stiles sends her, “but Isaac gets super sleepy, and Boyd gets pissy.”

  “The fuck,” he mutters, looking at the ceiling. “Derek never mentioned anything about it.”

  “That’s ‘cause Derek gets super cuddly and gross,” she laughs, sitting up. “Alright, that's you finished.”

  Stiles eagerly bolts up and inspects his toes. They're a little messy around the edges, but the colour is quite nice, and Erica looks thoroughly pleased with herself. Stiles darts a grin at her. “Where'd you find this colour anyways?”

  Her smile turns sly. “Isaac found it, actually; he said it'd look good on you.”

  This gives Stiles pause. “He what?”

  Erica shrugs and leans over the side of the couch to put the bottle into the shoe-box that is her collection. “Isaac helps me pick out makeup sometimes. You should see him in full highlight.”

  “Damn, we should invite him to our girls nights then.”

  With a laugh, Erica hands the box to Stiles, who nearly drops it in surprise. “God, he wouldn't be caught dead painting his nails in front of you. And it's your turn to do me.”

  “He knows I'm queer, though,” Stiles huffs, and starts looking through the box. A deep red draws his attention and he holds it up for Erica’s approval. She nods and barely gives him time to move the box before she flops her feet into his lap. 

  “I think he's still figuring things out.”

  “What, that he's pan as all fuck?”

  Erica laughs again, loudly. “Let him figure it out, Stiles.”

  Sticking his tongue out at her, Stiles uncaps the bottle. “Has he figured out he's totally in love with me?”

  “Gross,” Erica snorts as Stiles lays out the first coat. Her eyebrows shoot up. “You have a steady hand for a spaz.”

  Stiles makes an affronted sound, but doesn't look up from his work. “My mom taught me when I was, like, three. My dad and I kept up the tradition.”

  “The Sheriff let you paint his nails?”

  “Mhm.” Stiles bends closer to make sure he gets a clean stroke on her pinky toe. “He was straight, if that's what you're thinking.”

  “No judgement from me, Stiles.” She grins when he glances up. “We’re an entire pack of queers.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You too?”

  “I may or may not have crushed on Lydia for while.”

  He bears his teeth in a very poor attempt at imitating Derek, and Erica throws her head back to laugh. “Well, you're gonna have to fight me for her.”

  “Like she'd be interested in either of us.” She leans against the arm of the couch and wriggles her toes. “Not with that Adonis drooling all over her.”

  Stiles makes a face. “Ew, Jackson?”

  “Oh c’mon, you can't tell me you haven't at least thought about it.”

  “I will do no such thing,” he scoffs and screws the cap back on the bottle. “You wanna do hands now?” 

  She jerks up, smile all teeth. “Only if you can put dicks all over mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually had this written for weeks, and completely forgot about it whoops.  
> I'll try and get to all your comments as soon as possible; they've actually made the past few months so much easier and I can't thank you enough.
> 
> ~Zoom Zoom


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I _have_ made out with a man before.”
> 
> “Stiles, ‘not helping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the scene that started this whole fic, actually. wasn't actually anything like I'd planned.

  “This is the second gayest thing I have ever done,” Stiles says, staring at Derek sitting across from him in the middle of the circle cast he’s drawn on the rough floor of the attic. They’re surrounded by candles, and with the collection of basil and orange blossoms between them, it does feel grossly... romantic.

  Stiles can’t tell if the red colour high on Derek’s cheeks is from the candles or not.

  “Only the second?” Derek asks, gaze darting to the flowers, but dutifully looking back to Stiles.

  Stiles scoffs, feels that awkward tension in his shoulders and wants to run. “I have made out with a man before.”

  “Stiles, ‘not helping.”

  “Sorry, not sorry, because this the most awkward thing we have ever done, Derek, are you even looking around yourself, we are surrounded by candles and flowers. Candles and flowers, Derek. We just need a plate of spaghetti and we’d be goddamn lady and the tram—”

  Derek grabs his wrist, and Stiles’ breath stops somewhere between his chest and his throat. “Stiles. Shut up.”

  “Shutting up.”

  With an inward sigh, Derek tightens his grip for a moment. Then he moves down to hold his hand instead, and Stiles can almost forget that Derek could kill him with that hand, for the almost soft way he holds it. 

  “You know the ritual better than me,” Derek is saying, and the colour hasn’t left his cheeks. 

  “You’ll forgive me if my brain is completely blank right now.”

  Derek sighs again, looking at the runes around them. “Then I guess we’ll just sit here, holding hands, until you remember what step one is.”

  Stiles doesn’t want to have another seizure, doesn’t want to feel like he had at the Nemeton; he’d actually give almost anything to not feel like he’s covered in burns. But he also knows that this only works _both ways_ ; if Derek wanted to back out, even a little bit, nothing would work, they really would just be sitting there, _holding_ _hands_ , until one of them broke, and then they’d be right back to square fuckin' one and—

  “Stiles.” Derek squeezes his hand. “Stop thinking.” Stiles slowly lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Good. Now what’s step one.”

  “Step one is for you to light the last candle,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the final pillar candle between them. It’s the only red one and Stiles hates everything. 

  “‘Seems easy enough.” Derek picks up the lighter Stiles had used earlier and clicks it to life. Before he can light it, Stiles almost smacks it from his grip.

  “Wait, Derek, if you light it and don’t want to do this, it’ll be—”

  Derek sighs and lights the candle anyways. “I’m lighting the candle, Stiles.”

  Sounds outside the attic fade until it’s just them, their breathing, the way Stiles’ blood pumps too loud in his ears. Derek is watching him, but only that and it hits Stiles again.

  His alpha is just sitting there, shoulders bent in the way they are when they’re sitting at the table with the pack after a good meal, a good full moon. He’s holding his hand and gently stroking his thumb over Stiles’. He’s known Stiles for four years and he isn’t running.

  “Step two is to breathe.”

  “Okay.”

 

  “Are they making out yet,” Jackson asks, standing over Erica and Isaac, who have their ears pressed the attic door. 

  “Shut up, Jackson.”

 

//~//

 

  “I really don’t know how a family of two goes through so much milk,” his mom is saying to herself, double checking prices as Scott trails along behind her. Their bi-monthly grocery trips had taken a spike in price once he’d hit high school, but Scott doesn’t think her late shifts at the hospital have helped a whole lot either. Sure, Scott has two or three bowls of cereal in the morning, but his mom drinks twice that in coffees, which are more like hot milk with a splash of espresso anyway. 

  Scott mumbles as much as he adds a steak to their cart. 

  “I swear, if our grocery bill goes up any more because of your lycanthropy, you’re getting a part time job.”

  “Please stop calling it lycanthropy.”

  “Never.”

  With a groan, Scott wanders off for canned beans, leaving his mom in front of the milk. He vaguely wonders what pack grocery trips are like and almost laughs out loud. He does chuckle, and amuses himself with the thought as he roots through all the kidney beans for black. 

  Something changes in the air between one inhale and the next, and Scott feels his shoulders go tight. He wants to run, as far and as fast as he possibly can, as danger kicks a place into his chest and stays there. 

  “You’ll get fat eating all those,” a woman is saying as she pushes her cart around the corner to the aisle Scott is crouching on, and Scott’s gaze immediately snaps to her.

  She’s beautiful, he decides, blonde and bomb-shell, and every high schoolers’ wet dream. But her grin is sharp-toothed and every muscle in Scott screams for him to run. 

  “I work out,” the woman’s companion says, with the tone that they’d had this conversation before, and it takes Scott a moment to recognise her. 

  Scott would pay his brain like, big bucks, to unfreeze and get him the hell out of there, because it’s the girl from the post office and here he is, squatting next to the beans and staring at her sister (?). 

  The blonde woman’s gaze goes right over him, but post office girl spares him a small smile before they’re back to bickering softly. 

  With a small cough, Scott finally makes himself stand up and walk as quick as he can without running back to his mom, who is still frowning over milk prices. 

  She looks up as he approaches, from his face to his empty hands. “Weren’t you getting beans?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao what is this


	61. Chapter 61 (∆)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _December 28th, 2010_
> 
>  
> 
> Does this human know what they approach, he wonders, tangling the claws of his right hand into the flowers blooming on his thighs. Do they know the beast waiting for them.

  Stiles sits at the base of the tree for longer than he can remember. Logically, he knows it can’t have been more than a few hours since... since he left his house on a walk. But moss grows over the knees of his worn-out jeans, and vines inch up his arms, curling around him until he can’t move, digging into his flesh until his fingers go numb.

  Maybe this should concern him.

  But he sort of feels like that time his mom gave him his dad’s cup of hot chocolate instead of his own, and he can even feel the burn of the whiskey at the back of his throat.

  The trunk behind him is warm, almost, but not quite; it’s a steady force that grounds him better than medication or breathing exercises ever did. Something in the back of his mind finds this familiar, the way his grandmother’s old quilt that they keep over the back of the couch is, but it’s alien, foreign, too.

  The forest around him breathes in the silence, air crisp and easy. There aren’t any animals, though, the underbrush quiet and the canopy unmoving. Something’s scared them off, his mind supplies, head turning to look around the trees for any sign of life.

  But it's just him.

  Stiles opens his mouth to ask the stillness, but all that leaves his throat is a low, gruff growl. His tongue doesn’t quite feel right in his mouth, as if he has jaws instead of flabby human cheeks.

   Ah. He’s the one that scared them off.

  From far off into the trees, a fog rolls in, twisting around tree trunk and fern, over the pine needles, inching closer and closer to his hiding place. With it, an even tenser silence.

  Stiles opens his jaws and scents the air, but... nothing. The mist glides past his fangs and down his throat, settling in his stomach. Something deep and ancient in him rumbles and raises its hackles.

  Movement draws his sharp gaze upwards, following the fog’s path to its source far past the evergreens. Someone is running towards him, nothing but a blur through the underbrush. It’s unmistakably a human, from the acrid smell of sweat and emotion, but Stiles can’t quite make out a face just yet.

  Does this human know what they approach, he wonders, tangling the claws of his right hand into the flowers blooming on his thighs. Do they know the beast waiting for them.

  The figure limps closer, and closer, and closer, as Stiles’ wrinkles up his snout at the smell of blood. It’s putrid, as if rotting while still inside its marrow.

  The human is a boy, not quite a man, hunched over with the effort it takes to simply breathe. Stiles isn’t quite sure how far out in the Preserve he is, but no other human should be out here either.

  The human ducks around a tree, checks over their shoulder, then makes eye contact with Stiles.

  But that’s... that’s _him_ , stumbling through the forest, leaving a trail of blood through the snow.

 And it is snowing, all around Stiles, but not quite touching him, and the vines around his arms continue to grow unbothered by the cold he starts to feel seeping into his bones. He’s running towards himself, blind to Stiles with a wolf’s jowls, blind to being in two places at once.

  Stiles inhales a short, sharp breath, between one heartbeat and the next. As if waiting for this, the vines snap impossibly tight, sprouting thorns and teeth that dig into his flesh and force a keen from his throat.

  The other him, the one running, speaks, but no sound comes out. He stumbles to a stop just before Stiles, and looks down at his bleeding form curled in the trunk of a dying tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason I haven't been updating, tbh. 
> 
> 'Aight, I have the last chapters outlined. It all goes downhill from here, y'all. You ready for me to be done with this fuckin' three year project?


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The last time someone tried to do that, a house _burned_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any spelling mistakes: I only have the use of one thumb, and my brain is not cooperating with typing at the moment. Please feel free to point them out, though!

 Peter is grinning at them as if he knows the answer to some secret, and Isaac watches on with the unease of knowing that if there was a secret to know, Peter  _ definitely _ knew it. 

 Derek stands at the back, nearest to the stairs, and lets Lydia do the talking, but something is different: Derek isn’t hiding anymore. He’s commanding the pack from the sidelines, trusting them, and Isaac will bet his own wolf that Peter can feel the change. 

 “Oh, come now, darling, you can’t really think this is going to scare me,” Peter is saying as Lydia lights a final candle on the perimeter of his mountain ash circle. Lydia just shoots him a smile and tosses the lighter to Jackson.

 “Oh, don’t worry, ‘darling’: the candles aren’t to scare you.” She steps back, taking her book of shadows from Danny and settling in the kitchen chair across from Peter. Logically, Isaac knows there’s no way Peter can get at her from inside his circle, but he still feels the urge to snatch up their emissary and move her somewhere safer. But, then, the idea of Lydia needing protecting is almost laughable.

 “And what would they be for, then?” Peter asks, settling into his chair and stretching his legs as far out as his circle will allow. 

 Lydia flips open her journal and crosses her own legs. “To make sure you’re telling the truth.” Peter’s brow shoots up at this, and Derek seems pleased with his response. “How did you survive the fire?”

 Peter scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

 “Just starting with the basics,” Lydia says sweetly, tapping her her heeled toes on the concrete floor, like she’s got all the time in the world. 

 “You do realise I don’t have to tell you anything.”

 “No, but it’d be in your best interest to, anyways. As far as Stiles and I are concerned, we can leave you down here to rot.”

 “Stiles,” Peter says slowly, cocking his head. He darts a look to Derek, but his expression betrays nothing. “The spark.”

 “Yes, the spark,” she snips back. “So. How did you survive the fire.”

 Returning his attention to Lydia, Peter concedes, “I, like Derek, wasn’t in the house.”

 “Why did you pretend to be dead?”

 “I didn’t.” He rolls his shoulders, his gaze back on Derek. “There were too many bodies, too burnt, for them to be sure of who was there and who wasn’t. I let the police draw their own conclusions.”

 “Hmm.” Lydia makes a note with a quill that Isaac is pretty sure is Stiles’. “When was the last time you heard from Laura?”

 His expression doesn’t change, but Isaac can smell the sudden spike of fear, of anger. “Not since the fire.”

 “Then why have you returned to Beacon Hills?”

 “I never left.”

 The candles shoot off a single purple spark. “Is that so.”

 “How long are we going to keep this up?” Peter asks instead, twisting his wrists, as if testing the security of his ropes. “I don’t know anything about the Nemeton, nor your  _ spark _ ,” he bites out the word and throws it in Derek’s direction, “so perhaps it’s in all our best interests to end this silly charade.”

 Lydia casts a glance to Derek, who merely shrugs. “Perhaps it’s in  _ yours _ to tell us why you involved a civilian.”

 “The pup?” Peter barks out a laugh. “Your spark was the one to involve him, not me. I merely... cemented the connection.”

 “We could have been your anchor, Peter,” Derek says, doesn’t move from leaning against the banister. Peter’s shoulders go tight.

 “Let my niece become my alpha?” he outright snarls. “Not on your life,  _ whelp _ . I already had an anchor.”

 “She died.”

 “So I noticed.”

 Derek tilts his head at him. “You still blame me. For Kate.”

 “For killing all but two of my family, my pack? Killing my anchor? Wonderful deduction, nephew.” He lashes out to kick over one of the candles. Lydia raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t even flinch.

 Isaac hears someone stumbling around upstairs, and turns his gaze to the ceiling. He easily identifies it as Stiles’ heartbeat, looking over to see Derek’s lips tug into a frown. Stiles’ heartbeat is calmer than it has been in weeks, but from Derek’s expression, it isn’t good, either.

 The pack turns to the door at the top of the stairs, as Stiles slowly descends. Isaac gets that flash of panic that he’s hurt, again, but nothing smells off. 

 Derek meets him at the bottom of the stairs, and Stiles looks at him with a tortured, wide-eyed disbelief. 

 “The vamps,” he gets out, voice unsteady, “you knew.” Derek swallows once. “You knew they went after my dad.”

 

//~//

 

 “You’re being ridiculous, Allison.”

 “ _ I’m _ being ridiculous?!” she all but screeches back, staring at her aunt and not recognising the face that used to sing her to sleep. 

 Kate sighs and leans against the doorjamb of her room. “We’re hunters. We hunt the supernatural. It’s what we’ve always done.”

 “No, we haven’t!” Allison forces herself to stay on her bed, for fear she’d do something rash. Like punch her aunt. “Dad works with them, we’ve all worked with them, they’re not  _ bad _ , they just  _ exist _ .”

 “You won’t understand, until you’ve killed your first wolf.”

 “I don’t believe what I’m hearing right now.”

 Kate gives her that look, like she’s still a child, like she just took a spill down the stairs and needs to be taught how to not slip on the top step. “It’s just one wolf, Allison. Your dad will never have to know. Just trust me—”

 “No.” Allison stands up, clenches her fists. “I’m not letting you take me on some... some secret hunt, to kill a wolf. The Hale pack protects Beacon Hills, just as much as we do. You’re going to start a war.”

 “Would that be so bad?” Kate steps forward to put her hands on Allison’s shoulders, but Allison shoves her off.

 “I think you should leave.”

 “You can’t kick me out, Allison,” she hisses, and her tender expression is gone, replaced with bared teeth. “The last time someone tried to do that, a house  _ burned _ .”

 “Are you  _ threatening _ me?”

 Kate looks her over, and steps back away. “Maybe. Stay out of trouble, kid.” She ruffles Allison’s hair, as if their conversation hadn’t happened, and leaves. The door slams, betraying her state of mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy am I feeling this chapter. For the most part.


End file.
